


angon mongso

by pissedofsandwich, wulancaka (surabayuh)



Category: Bumilangit Cinematic Universe, Gundala (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anak Bapak!Sancaka, Conspiracy, F/F, F/M, Gen, don't get fooled by the language this is an English/Indonesia event ladies, how to grow your homemade assassin children, tags grow as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/surabayuh/pseuds/wulancaka
Summary: “Nanti kamu bisa jadi insinyur, jadi ilmuwan, ya?”Sancaka stole a look at the lady and her husband, hands ready to push the door open and run. His eyes fleeted to the window, glancing at the street—and caught kid-thugs intimidating other beggars, and a woman who passed them by with a look of disgust.He glanced at the pair on the front seat, again.His hands retreated.Sancaka stayed in the car.





	1. setunggal.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome,,,, to our collab of the AU we've all been screaming for in the TL... the anak bapak!Sancaka-verse is coming benches! dont let the summary fool u tho this fic is a nani/cantika propaganda, courtesy of yours truly, but especially @/pissedofsandwich lmao

Sancaka sipped his drink—eyes ever-vigilant, glancing around and assessing people as he dutifully sidelined himself into the corner of the large ballroom. Even in a room filled with people and buzzing with endless conversation, Sancaka had never felt more alone than right then.

_Crowds never was his thing_, he sighed, and lowered the glass from his lips.

Even the alcohol couldn’t fully damper the uneasy fire within the pit of his stomach—but that was alright. Nothing ever really could. Not when he was in the presence of these types of people; who surrounded themselves with all the riches and none the kindness, none the empathy. He could read all these people as easy as flipping the back of his hands—all their vanity, their ignorance, their unwillingness to even turn around, see the suffering of others. 

These types of people disgusted him—suffocated him. All he wanted to do was to get out and take some fresh breath of air. But he couldn’t—not when this event was designed for _him_. Well, not him specifically, but rather, his department and their stellar discoveries over the year. However, considering that he was the head of the Research and Discoveries Department of Wijaya Industry, it meant that he had quite the spotlight within the occasion, whether he liked it or not.

Sancaka sipped his drink again, savoring the glass of wine. He purposefully pushed himself to the corners of the ballroom, barely hiding his unwillingness to chat with other people. He'd done his bit, earlier, with the press-releases and the photo ops, and frankly it was more than enough publicity. Now that the buffet table on the sidelines was relatively empty and everyone seemed to mingle in the center, he seemed like he could escape their attention well enough, if at least for a while. 

And then his peripheral vision caught someone discreetly approaching at his direction, but not quite. He subtly turned to find a woman, lodging herself inconspicuously a few steps away from him, scooping a large spoonful of the buffet leftovers—the cocktail shrimps, Sancaka noted—and put it into a large, knockoff Tupperware container she was holding with her left hand. 

_Huh. _Sancaka thought. Now _that_ was something he'd never seen before. 

"Laper?" He said, uncharacteristically initiating an idle conversation. The woman all but gasped in surprise, her hold to her container nearly slipping as the large buffet ladle fell to the table with a soft thud.

"Astaga!" She hissed, glaring at him; though the malice was little, overpowered by the pink blush of embarrassment, blooming on her cheeks. "Bikin kaget aja, sih, mas." Her accent thickened—javanese, it seemed—as she placed a free hand over her chest, feigning a dramatic shock. 

Sancaka grinned, taking one long stride to get closer to her. "Ya, maaf," he said, only half-heartedly, as he observed her. She wore a simple batik dress, unlike most others dressed for this occasion. She had no jewels adorning her body, save for a pair of golden earrings, and wore little to no make-up. On her chest was a neatly badged 'PRESS' sign, indicating her role in this event.

She looked like she didn't belong here—and Sancaka suddenly didn't feel so alone anymore. 

"Pinter juga," he commented, head tilting to the still-open container on her open palm. "Dibungkus gitu, biar bisa dibawa pulang."

The lady narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a suspicious look, and Sancaka only shrugged, giving her his signature wry look. Hey, he was just being honest. 

She seemed to be weighing in on replying him or to just walk away, abandoning this whole conversation, and for a split second Sancaka thought that she was going to choose for the latter, but then—then she responded with a smirk. "Yah. Daripada ditinggal disini." She said, re-taking the ladle and resumed her job to scoop the shrimps into her Tupperware. "Mubazir. Paling juga nanti dibuang." 

"Oh?" 

"Acara sebesar ini, mah, biasanya tempat katering-nya suruh tanda tangan kontrak. Biar makanan sisanya nggak dikasih ke siapa-siapa." She elaborated. "Bisa berkilo-kilo, jadi limbah, sia-sia." 

Sancaka was now mildly intrigued by this woman—because he'd never heard anyone lament about food wastes this in-depth before; not in this type of event, at least. People who'd gotten used to ball-gowns and three-course-meals wouldn't spare a glance at possible diversion of their event's leftovers. 

He watched her, now scooping beef black-pepper and stuffing it next to the cocktail shrimps, utilizing every free space she got left. Sancaka suddenly recognized that movement everywhere—had done it often himself, out of old habit, sometimes; 

this was the movement of a person who'd grown used to not having anything at home, and was trying to savor and treasure as much as she could before the bliss got taken away of her, once more.

This was someone who had not only understood, but had endured poverty. 

"...bakal kamu bilangin, kan?"

He blinked, her words snapping him out of his reverie. "Hm?" He hummed, rather sheepishly, for being caught of not paying attention.

The woman rolled her eyes, but she did so rather kindly, with fond exasperation rather than cold indignation. "Aku bilang, kamu gak bakal bilangin ke yang punya _gawe_, kan? Gak bakal _wadul_, kamu?"

Sancaka shook his head, amusement growing by the second. "Nggak, lah." He said, his voice laced with a soft chuckle as he shook his head. She sighed with relief, seemingly unaware that she was standing right in front of the so-called star of the show she was so worried about. Sancaka wasn't about to enlighten her on _that_.

The Lady gave him a wry smile, then. "bisa juga ternyata ngandalin kamu. Tak kira kamu bakal judes gitu, kayak di _presscon _tadi, Pak _'Lead Scientist._'" she put an air-quoting sign with her fingers.

Huh. So she _did _know who he is—perhaps she meant for the Wijayas, then. "Sancaka aja, cukup." He said, finding himself unconsciously smiling. He tilted his chin over her container, which was now filled to the brim. "Banyak juga, ya, kamu ngambilnya." He commented, not unkindly. "Segitu habis sendiri?"

She sighed, exasperation coloring her face. "Ya nggak buat aku _doang, _lah," she said, rather impatiently, "ini nanti paling aku kasih adikku—dia seneng udang goreng, soalnya. Terus dibagi juga sama tetangga sebelah kontrakan."

Sancaka was stunned by her answer, and the innocent thoughtfulness that came along with it. While the rest of the guests wouldn't even give a second thought about the starvings right outside this very building, here this woman was; willing to compromise dignity just to put food on someone else's table.

They had just interacted in less than half-an-hour, and already Sancaka was immensely impressed by her. "Baik, ya, kamu." He said, as genuinely as possible, because it was _true._

She blushed again, lowering her head to hide a small smile. "Bisa aja." She said, closing the container with the lid. 

Sancaka was about to ask her who her name was when her eyes suddenly narrowed on one specific direction and her entire body tensed. She immediately shoved the closed container to her rather large purse, hastily saying, "aku permisi dulu, ya." Before walking away with long strides, not even waiting on Sancaka's response. 

He narrowed his eyebrows, wondering what had repelled her so quickly and prompted her discomfort—

"...Lan!" 

His head followed the direction the Lady was looking before, and _ah. _

Sancaka suddenly got it.

Nani Wijaya, heiress of this business _empire—_all this wealth and money and _ignorance_, was slowing down her hasty steps as she arrived where the Lady once was, her frown deepening. She looked, left and right, no doubt looking for her chased-down target, before defeatedly exhaling, seemingly accepting her failure at being unable to catch the Lady.

Sancaka watched Nani in disdain, unconsciously taking a step back. Even her movements, exaggerated and way too careless, annoyed him to no ends.

The simmering hatred in his chest, the one that he kept in check all this night out of courtesy, involuntarily turned up a notch. "Ini pesta, bukan sepak bola. Anda tolong jangan main _sleding_ sembarangan, mengagetkan saja."

After a short while, her eyes finally landed onto him and she gasped in surprise of meeting him there. "Pak San—Sanusi?"

Sancaka nearly snorted at her inability to recall his name. "Sancaka." He reminded her, coldly.

"Oh, iya!" She said, eyes going comically wide. "Duh, mohon maaf, saya tadi _nggak_ melihat anda."

"Hmph," Sancaka snorted, all mirth leaving his eyes, replaced with a sharp look. "Saya _nggak _kaget. Jarang-jarang keluarga Wijaya melihat orang selain diri mereka sendiri." He muttered, under his breath, before emptying his glass in one gulp.

"Apa?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, gone the surprised look on her face. Sancaka merely shrugged, placing his drink to the table. He had a hunch that she heard him the first time, and he wasn't about to entertain the heiress, now. 

Nani Wijaya sighed, then, shaking her own head, "Yaudah—terserah." She mumbled, "Saya tadi cuma mau menghampiri, eh, anu, perempuan yang tadi bicara sama Pak Sancaka disini." She gestured her hand to the area where she stood. "Pak Sancaka tau, nggak, dia tadi pergi kemana?"

Tilting his head slightly, Sancaka made no effort to meaningfully answer her question. "Kalau dia pergi, bukankah berarti dia _nggak _ingin dicari?" He said, instead. 

Nani exhaled, impatience evident on her movements. "Ya tapi ini penting, Pak—"

Sancaka raised his eyebrows, crossing his hands over his chest. "Oh? Gitu?" He said, no, sneered. "Jadi kepentingan anda pasti mengalahkan yang lain, begitu ya?" 

The change of the mood was immediate; she froze, her whole body stoic at the powerful jab Sancaka's words landed to her. The Wijaya heiress opened her mouth in protest, but her voice came out in stutters and was incorrigible, so Sancaka merely rolled his eyes in contempt. Quite suddenly, Nani stomped her foot, frustration coloring her face. 

Sancaka merely blinked. "Kenapa, marah? _Nggak _biasa, ya, untuk _nggak _dapat apa yang anda inginkan?" He said, the words smooth and sharp as it came out of his mouth.

"Saya nggak ngerti, deh," said Nani, now dropping the common courtesy from her tone. "Saya tuh selalu baik sama anda. Selalu berusaha ramah. Tapi anda mesti—" she moved her hand indignantly at his direction, blowing a loud exhale as she did so. "Salah saya apa, sih?"

Her accusation was met with a cold gaze, as Sancaka's mind replayed thousands of thoughts in flash; _the factory, the protest, the riots, the attacks—_

_"Pak, jangan mati, Pak," Sancaka sobbed, fat tears rolling, mixing with raindrops on his cheeks. "Jangan mati—"_

"Banyak." He merely said, darkly, voice simmering in the beginning of that harsh bit of anger. His hands clenched and unclenched, his knuckles tight and borderline painful. Before Nani Wijaya could say anything, Sancaka immediately took his leave.

He could not stand interacting with her for another second. 

_Bapak was right, _he thought, as he hastened his steps. _These rich bastards, they're far too conceited, far too absorbed in their own necessity, in their own sense of importance, to truly appreciate the value of others._

_They need someone to put them in their—_

"Ah, Pak Sancaka!" 

Sancaka paused, his trail of thoughts breaking as he whipped his head, searching for the source of the call. In a quick attempt to distance himself from Nani Wijaya, he had unconsciously resettled himself to the center of the room, right into the crowd of—

"Pak Ridwan," he said, feigning a faux smile, quietly inhaling and exhaling to soothe his fumes as he offered a hand for the legislator to shake. His eyes trailed to the bunch behind the senior man, compiled of faces, familiar and foreign, old and young, confident and nervous. "Wah, kalau pesta begini, baru se-komisi pasti datang semua, ya." 

His words was less of a joke and more of a subtle jab to the incompetence and ignorance of the parliament members that he'd grown accustomed to, but it went straight through their head as the bunch behind Pak Ridwan let out a chorus of unbridled laughter, sparing only one young man to give him a sharp glare. Sancaka merely smiled tightly at their reaction. 

"Buru-buru banget, Pak." Commented one of the female legislators whose name Sancaka couldn't recall, giving him a flirtatious grin while batting her eyelashes. "Ini kan, pesta bapak, santai sedikit boleh, lah." 

"Pesta _departemen _saya." Corrected Sancaka, unwilling for his department's contribution to go unappreciated, and frankly slightly disturbed at her blatant attempt of seducing him. 

He felt Pak Ridwan's hand touching his arm, as if trying to hold him off of something. "Dan departemen bapak memang pantas untuk dapat selebrasi ini," his tone was neutral, almost soothing. "Kami semua hendak mengucapkan selamat—dan terimakasih. Tanpa penemuan-penemuan dari Perusahaan Wijaya, Indonesia akan sangat kekurangan inovasi baru."

Sancaka smiled, but it was sour, because even the inventions that his teams made was still subject to the Wijaya's claims, still subject to their undeserving fame. "Terimakasih, Pak," he said, politely, with little genuinety in his words.

Pak Ridwan nodded, solemnly. "Bapak sudah kenalan, belum, dengan wajah-wajah baru komisi VI? Baru dilantik pekan lalu, kan." He said, hand extended to his colleagues, as if presenting them. "Kata pepatah, '_tak kenal maka tak sayang.'"_

He'd doubt that he would have liked them even if he knew them, but Sancaka took the offer, anyway, shaking hands with the rest of the group, noting their faces and names for safekeep. Some he knew from the previous term, some he only met now. He attempted his best to be as polite as possible while occasionally glancing at the sides of the room, looking for an opening to escape.

The last person to the commission—a young man quite possibly Sancaka’s age, didn’t take his extended hand. “Dirga Utama.” He said, snidely. "Dan saya tidak suka ya, dengan tuduhan bapak."

Sancaka looked at him, eyes slightly widening. "Oh?" He said, lowering his hand.

"Saya disini karena rakyat memilih saya, dan saya melakukan pekerjaan saya dengan baik." The man—Dirga—said, rather hotly. "Tidak seperti anda—dan jangan kira saya tidak tahu siapa anda."

"Dirga," Came Pak Ridwan's reprimanding hiss, but Sancaka was now mildly amused—and somewhat challenged—by the audacity of this young, naive man.

"Memang saya siapa?" He smiled, rather mirthlessly, head tilting slightly to bait him for an answer.

Dirga snorted, lifting his chin as he spoke. "Saya tahu _bapak_ anda yang menempatkan anda disini.”

_"Dirga!"_

Pak Ridwan’s voice came in a tired, sharp reprimand. But Dirga merely tilted his chin higher, as if daring Sancaka to defend his reputation.

Sancaka sighed, inwardly, because now this man was digging his own grave. He opened his mouth, already coming up with an equally sharp rebuttal—

“Wah, wah, ada apa ini, ramai sekali?”

Sancaka froze, lips parting halfway. His body suddenly went slightly colder—not for himself, but for Dirga Utama. Because he could recognize that voice _anywhere._

Bapak waltzed in with his trademark limp, giving Sancaka a warm, personal smile before turning more business-like to the legislative members. “Pak Ridwan,” He greeted the senior representative, deceptively warm, offering his scarred hand for him to take. To untrained eyes, Ridwan Bahri didn’t even flinch. But Sancaka noticed the quietly resigned look on his face as he took Bapak’s hand, shaking it lightly. “Pak, Bu,” Bapak turned to the other members, and they all shook his hand—except Dirga Utama.

Sancaka shook his head rather subtly. _Bad move, _he thought, and something in his gut tightened at the blatant disrespect Dirga displayed to Bapak. 

“Pak Haedar Subandi.” Said Dirga, his tone firm and antagonistic. “Jadi acara ini juga ndak lepas dari jerat mafia bapak?”

“Dirga, sudah—" came Pak Ridwan's voice, now slightly tinted with panic. 

Sancaka wouldn't blame him. 

Bapak’s smile didn’t falter—it merely grew into a more menacing look. "Panggil saja saya Pengkor." He said, rather demurely. “Dan saya tidak tahu apa yang anda bicarakan, Pak.” He added, his tone tethering on the tip of formality, perfectly concealing the threat Sancaka had heard thousands of times. “Saya disini hanya untuk memberi dukungan moral untuk anak saya—” he pat Sancaka’s back rather firmly, firmer than he should, even, “toh, ini acara selebrasi untuk pencapaian dia dan departemennya di perusahaan ini.” He told Dirga, coyly. “Jahat sekali anda menuduh saya mafia tiba-tiba, bahkan sebelum kita saling kenal. Padahal anda wakil saya.” He turned to Ridwan, raising his unscarred eyebrow. “Apa begini, tingkah semua wakil rakyat sekarang?”

Dirga narrowed his gaze at him, opening his mouth to reply, but Ridwan Bahri grabbed his arm and steered him away. “Sepertinya perkenalannya cukup, ya saudara-saudara,” he said, playing the peacemaker. “Kami hendak pamit dulu—mau ambil makan sebelum sopnya habis. Mari.” He nodded, politely, before practically dragging the young politician away.

Once they were out of earshot, Sancaka immediately turned to Bapak, whose smile stayed the whole time as he eyed the herd away. "Orang seperti itu," Bapak said, looking at his deformed fingers. "Dia harus diberi pelajaran."

Sancaka nodded, silently. He knew exactly what kind of lesson Bapak was talking about—had carried out some of them _himself_.

His eyes fleeted to Dirga Utama, blissfully oblivious, and slightly pitied him for his stupidity.

_The man should have listened to his superior._

"Bapak lihat kamu tadi berbincang dengan putri Wijaya itu?" Bapak continued, idly, eyes glancing at Sancaka with an expectant look.

Sancaka hummed affirmatively. "Iya, Pak." 

Bapak gave him a solemn smile, "jadi kamu tahu, kan, sekarang, kenapa misi kamu penting?"

Sancaka's thoughts fleeted back to his interaction with the Wijaya heiress—recalling her demanding personality, her harshness, and her blatant disregard to people's privacy.

Truthfully, Sancaka still grappled with the weight or even the proportionality of his mission. But Bapak's orders were never unwise, nor was it ever wrong, so Sancaka shoved down his doubts and nodded.

"Bagus," Bapak said, raising his good hand to softly grab Sancaka's arm, rubbing it affectionately. "Anak bapak memang pintar—ndak seperti _mereka_." Bapak nudged his head to the direction of where Dirga Utama stood. "Orang-orang kayak mereka ini, San, yang biasa di atas; mereka harus sekali-kali ditunjukkan kebawah, diingatkan tempatnya. Biar tidak _ngelunjak_."

Sancaka smiled, body slightly leaning to Bapak's touch as he watched the young politician mingling along, unaware of his impending fate.

He tried to quench the queasiness at the pit of his stomach. It didn't quite disappear.

* * *

Nani didn't know what stick got shoved up in her Lead Scientist's ass, but it certainly made him become a permanent little bitch.

_Men, _she thought, in half-annoyance, half-confusion, _one must wonder how anyone could find them bearable, let alone attractive. _

Shaking her head, she instead focused on the task at hand; finding Wulan._ God, _even her name invoked little flutters of hope in her chest.

She looked left and right, trying to relocate the woman she'd been looking for. She didn't care if she seemed a little odd, or even graceless. Elegance and table manners flew out of the window the second she caught that beautiful smile in her peripheral vision.

_Why didn't she tell me she'd be here? _She thought, her heart yearning a painful somersault as she scrouged the crowd expertly. _She could have given me a head's up, a phone call or something—_

She fumed, barely mindful as she mumbled apologies to people she trudged and nudged over his her relentless quest. Nani _needed _to find Wulan, she needed to talk to her again, because—because—

_Fuck, _she missed her _so much_.

When her eyes caught a blur of kind face, and a wave of hair, she immediately hastened her steps. "Misi," she said, dividing guests over with her hands as she pursued Wulan's fleeting shadow. "Maaf, misi—"

Nani finally stopped, a few steps away from where Wulan stood, and froze—her entire body tensing.

Because yearning to see her and _actually _seeing her was two different types of _longing_.

Wulan was talking to one of the investors of Nani's family company, Haedar Subandi. People called him Pengkor, and they marked him dangerous, corrupt, and a psychopath, but at that second, all Nani cared was the fact that this man—who was half-burnt and horribly deformed for some people—had managed to make Wulan smile.

She might hate him on any other occasion but for this once—this once, where his words made Wulan throw her head up and laugh gracefully—this once she was grateful for his presence.

Still, she lurked in the back, waiting for an opening where she could get to Wulan without her expecting it. Nani wasn't dumb; she knew that Wulan had been avoiding her, and she knew that she wouldn't have her chance of speaking to her if she played nice.

She hated trapping Wulan like this, at a place where she would surely be uncomfortable, but Nani couldn't help it.

She needed it. _They _needed it—a closure.

Nani watched as Pengkor gestured a farewell, handing Wulan a business card—most probably his—and walked away. She saw her chance right then and took it.

Before Wulan could take another step, Nani all but bolted at her direction, grabbing her arm. "Wulan," she said, a little breathlessly.

Wulan froze, her body suspended mid-way of her movement. She didn't turn, but she didn't withdraw her hand either. Nani didn't know what to make of that.

"Tolong," said Wulan, after a long way of standoffish silence. Her tone was clipped as she spoke, "lepaskan tangan saya."

The use of cold formality landed quite a blow on Nani's conscience, and she reluctantly released Wulan's hand as her fractured heart shattered to little pieces. "Lan, _please."_ She practically begged, now, rather shamelessly. "Sebentar, aja. _Please, _Lan."

Her right ear was buzzing incessantly, but she was far too occupied to Wulan to meaningfully notice it. 

Slowly, Wulan turned, eyes looking at Nani stoically as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Ada yang bisa saya bantu?" She said, her tone crude and harsh and jabbed Nani in all the wrong places.

"Kenapa kamu nggak bilang kalau kamu bakal ke sini?" She asked, her tone almost accusatory as she did so.

Wulan shrugged, stiffly. "Saya disini ditugaskan kantor. Saya tidak melihat mengapa menghubungi anda relevan dengan tugas saya." She flipped her hair on her back, before crossing her arms over her chest.

Nani tsk-ed impatiently. "Ini acara perusahaan keluargaku, Lan. Kita berdua tau kalau ngontak aku bukan cuma relevan, tapi signifikan." The words came out of her mouth, unfiltered, and the realization came too little, too late.

Wulan's face turned triumphantly sour, as if Nani was proving a point she was silently making. "Oh—begitu, ya? Anda penting sekali, begitu; apalah saya yang butiran debu." She all but sneered, her words feeling like tight knots in Nani's stomach.

Nani was getting more and more desperate, hating her blabby mouth that just _wouldn't _stop speaking. "Bukan gitu maksudku! Aku—aku cuma—" she ran a hand to her hair, parting the unruly locks and pushing them to the back out of frustration. "kenapa nggak pernah telepon lagi? Gak pernah kontak aku lagi? Nomerku masih sama, alamatku juga—"

"Lah, tadi kan anda bilang sendiri? Anda orang penting—telepon Saya cuma akan mengganggu kesibukan anda." Wulan raised an eyebrow, challenging Nani to reply.

Nani shakily sighed, fingers fiddling nervously. Talking with Wulan was _so tiring—_it felt like going to war and not being able to take a break for just _one second._

Her ears were ringing, now, loudly. Nani scrunched her eyes, trying to focus on her thoughts.

"Aku—" she said, "aku cuma pingin ngomong, 'Lan." Her words came out soft and vulnerable, and suddenly she was nine again, tentatively taking Wulan's hand on hers as they walked home together from their school. 

"Bener, cuma pingin ngomong?" Wulan's reply was scathing, filled with years worth of anger and hurt. "Gak mau nyuruh saya pose lagi, sama kalian, di depan wartawan? Atau bohong untuk keluarga anda di wawancara? Gak mau pakai saya untuk publisitas lagi?"

Each accusation came out like a sharp knife twisting Nani's gut, one by one, each digging deeper than the other, tearing old wounds Nani thought she had healed. "Lan—" her voice was thick, now. Her eyes was filled with unshed tears.

"Saya wartawannya, sekarang." Wulan said, and her voice was now throaty, "kalian _nggak _bisa lagi bohong pakai saya." 

Nani shook her head, trying to eliminate the loud noises in her ears. "Aku _nggak—_aku bukan—" she wanted to say that she wasn't her parents, that she would _never _do something like that to Wulan; would rather _die _than hurt her more than she already had. "Goddamn it, 'Lan, I just _miss _you." She said, "and I'm _sorry, _and I just want to _reconnect_ with you."

English flew out of her mouth, as it often did when she was faced with an immense frustration. Her ears were ringing so loud her head hurts.

"Minta maaf nggak cukup." Said Wulan, tone somber and solemn. "Banyak hal yang _nggak _bisa disembuhkan dengan sekedar kata-kata, Nan."

This was the first time Wulan used her name, and instead of feeling elated, Nani felt all kinds of pain clutching her entire body. "Kalo gitu tell me what to do," she practically discarded all her dignity, just for a sliver of chance for Wulan's forgiveness. "Kamu bilang ke aku, aku harus apa, and I swear to _God, _Lan, I will do it."

Wulan tsk-ed in exasperation. "Bukan gitu cara kerjanya, Nan—"

_"Jatuh!"_

Both heads whipped at the sudden screech, and suddenly people we're running at the balcony of the ballroom. They were on the third floor, and people yelled and rushed at the voice of the scream.

"Masya Allah, Ada orang lompat—"

"Bunuh diri kah?"

"Astaga, astaga, gua tadi lihat, kepalanya pecah gitu, kebanting lantai—"

Wulan and Nani exchanged quick glances, and for once they both agreed on something tonight. Quickly, they both bolted to the balcony, squeezing in between people until they could reach the railings.

The second Nani caught the sight below, her stomach churned.

A man, now completely unrecognizable, was laying down the concrete. The remnants of his head splattered through the black ashpalt, and some even got through the white marble floor of the front lobby, giving a dramatic red-on-white contrast.

Nani looked around and saw Wulan next to her, covering her quivering mouth with her hands. Turned to another direction and caught her annoying Lead Scientist growing paler by the second.

"Ya Allah, itu suami saya!"

A wail broke in-between the crowd, and Nani instinctively turned to see a young woman, knees buckling as she gripped the railings tightly. "Itu suami saya—suami saya yang jatuh—"

The woman's knees finally gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, sobbing, as the children in her left and right shook her in confusion, then in tears, asking "Ma, ma, papa kenapa, ma? Papa _kenapa_?"

As people moved to assist the little, newly broken family, a cold sensation crept through Nani's system.

She tapped at her right ear, at the _sumping_ she was wearing.

It was solemnly silent. 

* * *

The cold air was biting into his skin, but Sancaka kept walking. 

He had no particular destination in mind, only one intention: to get as far away as possible from the ball. 

He didn’t want to think about what happened to Dirga Utama — his body, tied up, free-falling into the cold, hard asphalt, his _children _watching it all happen — too hard. He already knew that Kamal did it; no one else could have driven the most sane, idealistic person into leaping off a tall building that way. What did Kamal make him see? Was it his family? Perhaps Kamal made him see his children — the little girl and the little boy, maybe age 6 and 8 — dangling over the ledge, screaming for Dirga to come save them, when in reality, Dirga was plunging into his own demise.

The splatters of blood on the concrete —

Sancaka was no saint; he'd seen, and sometimes caused, a death more gruesome than that (Dirga's death, in the eyes of some of his siblings, probably looked like child's play). Bapak had ordered him to kill those like Dirga, before, people who got too close to Bapak, nosy enough to ask the wrong questions, or who were just plain disrespectful. Dirga was downright insulting, and Sancaka knew the second the word 'mafia' was out of Dirga's mouth, he would not survive the night.

But he'd expected later than sooner. After the party ended, or his apartment, certainly nowhere as _public _and _open _like the in the middle of the party, where his _children _could witness it.

No, it made sense that Bapak would want it to be public. The message was sure to hit home that way, a warning to anyone who even dared to play hero. It worked as an alibi to Bapak, too; those rats at the Congress would most likely to point to Bapak as the culprit, but party-goers would testify that Bapak couldn't have anything to do with it as he was right there, in the party, when Dirga died. Congress might be suspicious, but they would never be able to prove their claim.

He should be thankful. Any killings done to further their mission were necessary; the end justifies the means, he was always taught. Bapak had Dirga killed for him, because Dirga insulted him, and what was it, if not the greatest show of affection? 

He should've gone home with Bapak, _sungkem _before he went to sleep. Instead he was standing here, in the pedestrian walk, nearly exploding in confusion with his own emotions.

Maybe Swara Batin was right. He was far too emotional to be able to do anything worthwhile, let alone kill Sri Asih.

Sancaka bit his bottom lip. 

There was only one place that he could go, when he was like this.

He fished out his phone, dialing the numbers he knew by heart. He pressed the phone to his ear and anxiously waited for the ringing to stop.

Cantika answered on the third ring.

"Sancaka?"

"Kak." Sancaka took a deep breath, tried to say the words, but nothing came. "Kak—"

(He closed his eyes and he was ten again, rain sharp on his body like bullets, and the man he called father had fallen into a pool of blood, killed by a ghost knife)

But thank God for Cantika; even through little words, Cantika seemed to understand right away. "Bapak?”

Sancaka hated it, the way his throat closed up and the words choked, making him feel like he was small, so insignificant compared to the rest of the world.

"Kak Cantika di mana?" he finally managed to ask.

"Rumah sakit. Bentar lagi selesai, kok. Mau ketemuan?"

Sancaka nodded, before he realized Cantika wouldn't be able to see it. "Mau."

"Oke. Lima belas menit lagi aku OTW ya," Cantika said. "Kopi Pinggiran. Tag-in tempat, ya."

Sancaka mumbled an affirmative before hanging up on her.

Kopi Pinggiran was a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that Cantika discovered during a date with a bassist from an indie band that Cantika had never heard again after their date. According to Cantika, it was the only coffee shop that hadn't been made mainstream yet by the locals, making it a perfect meet-up place for two semi-assassin orphans who lived a double life. Cantika loved the rum coffee, so Sancaka went ahead and ordered that for her, and a black coffee for himself. It was the only way he knew how to drink coffee.

The shop was nearly deserted; there was only one other patron, sitting in the corner with headphones on and furiously typing on his laptop. Sancaka wove his fingers anxiously. Cantika was seldom ever late, but her shift could very well extend to sunrise if an emergency arose. What if Dirga’s body was brought to her hospital? He wondered what was done to Dirga's body, if someone painstakingly scoop his brain back into his skull and put it together for autopsy, if he was buried or cremated. He realized he never bothered to find out what happened to the people that he killed, and that thought sent and uncomfortable chill down his spine.

Cantika finally showed up, pushing the door open and ringing the bell situated above. Her eyes landed on Sancaka, and she immediately made a beeline for him, plopping herself down on the seat across from him.

"Aku baru baca berita," Cantika said. “Itu kamu?”

Sancaka shook his head, "Kamal yang disuruh."

"Kenapa?"

"Menghina Bapak," he gulped, "dan aku."

Cantika reached for her glass, sliding it to her direction. "Apa bedanya sama waktu-waktu lain Bapak bunuh orang?"

Sancaka shrugged. "Ada anaknya."

Cantika hesitated. "Anaknya ngeliat?"

Sancaka nodded.

He watched her fiddle with her straw, not really looking at him, or anywhere, really. 

Kindness was a cruel word for Sancaka. No one in this world was truly a kind person, not when kindness was a trade. A favor for a favor. Bapak was benevolent, but Sancaka knew not to test his place — the truest love was conditional, he learned very early from the start. Bapak paid for their school, let them be anything that they wanted — a model, a chef, a painter — so long as they remembered to answer when Bapak called. After all, their true mission was to bring about a new world and abolish anyone who stood in their way. Bapak’s love looked different than the movies he saw, but Bapak was not a liar. Unlike those saccharine sweet parents who wanted their dreams realized through their children, like some kind of pet project, Bapak was upfront with his intentions. He was kind, but for a reason. That honesty couldn’t be found anywhere else, and forevermore, Sancaka was glad he ended in Bapak’s custody. He understood that kindness could not be a part of the recipe; to raise a family of deadly assassins, what Bapak had to use was an iron fist. 

It made all the little moments of tenderness all the more endearing, to Sancaka. Sometimes, Bapak would let his guard down and ruffle his hair, squeeze his shoulder, and it would make everything worth the while. 

Nonetheless, Bapak’s children grew up the same way, be same man that he was, though certainly added with certain quirks and traits that Bapak didn’t have. But in his array of psychopathic siblings, there was Cantika. 

It was a year after his father’s death, his lightning powers still on the cusp of cultivating, that Bapak called him into his room and gave him a white flag. He told Sancaka to hold on the flag tightly, because he was going to play a game of capture the flag against his siblings. The rules were simple: no matter what happened — whether he was kicked, punched, hypnotized — Sancaka should not allow the flag to fall into anyone else’s hands. With that, Bapak threw him into the ring to face his siblings, all at once, and watched. The pressure of not disappointing Bapak was so overwhelming — still _so _overwhelming, to this day — that he couldn’t remember most of what he did, just the feelings and sensations.

He remembered how Desti wrapped a coil around his neck and pulled, remembered how Mutiara’s kick to his jaw lost him a tooth, how one of Jack’s knives slashes his ear, rendering both of them mangled, couldn’t forget the way Tanto and Kanigara held him down as Kamal made him relive his worst nightmare, over and over again. No holds barred, each of his siblings were merciless, using anything in their reach to subdue him, to capture the flag from him. In the end, he was severely outnumbered and beaten to a pulp, and Swara Batin, the only one who had not landed any direct hit on him, but simply watched from the sidelines like he was too _bored _to join the fun, plucked the flag from him and calmly sauntered over to Bapak, presenting it like a valuable crown.

Sancaka had never felt more shame than he did that day. He couldn’t even get up, one of his legs sprained when Sam brought down his hammer on his ankle. Bapak left the arena with the flag in his hand, and one by one, his siblings left, too, stepping over him, laughing. 

All but one. 

Cantika didn’t leave. She kneeled in front of him, and without a word, lifted him up. She brought him to the infirmary, tended to his wounds, brought him food, even read him a story before he went to sleep that night. Sancaka didn’t know why she did it — why she showed him kindness — but he was too scared to question why, so what Cantika was willing to give him, he took it. Desti, Mutiara, Adi — everyone else — were his siblings, but Cantika was his _sister_, and if nothing else, she was kind. 

“Bapak memang begitu,” Cantika took a sip. “Mau memberi pesan buat orang-orang seperti Dirga itu, agar tidak merasa angkuh.”

“Tapi nggak harus di depan anak-anaknya juga, Kak.”

“Bapak itu visioner. Berbeda sama orang-orang di Dewan itu, dia tahu langkah apa aja yang harus dia ambil kalau mau misi kita berhasil,” Cantika said. “Bapak nggak pernah ngelakuin apa pun tanpa sebab. Percaya sama aku, dia melakukan itu di ruang publik, di depan anak-anaknya, karena dia punya rencana. Semuanya ada alasannya.”

Sancaka stared at the dew forming on Cantika’s glass. “Aku juga seumuran mereka. Waktu — “ God, he couldn’t say the words. Why the fuck couldn’t he say the words? “Waktu itu.”

Cantika’s eyes softened. “Iya, aku tahu.”

“Aku nggak habis pikir aja — “

“San,” Cantika reached for his hand. “Ini bukan salah kamu. Dirga yang memaksa Bapak untuk membunuh dia. Dirga yang kurang ajar, angkuh ngatain kamu. Bapak cuma mau menjadikan dia jadi contoh.” 

Eyes downward, Sancaka mumbled, “Mereka trauma pasti. Ngeliat ayahnya mati begitu.”

“Mereka nggak kayak kamu, Sancaka,” Cantika said, not unkindly. “Ketika ayah kamu meninggal, kamu nggak punya apa-apa. Ibu kamu nggak kerja, rumah kalian bahkan ngontrak. Anak-anak itu—mereka anak orang kaya, Sancaka. Mereka orang berpunya.” Cantika paused, as if trying to make sure that what she said sunk in. 

“Bapak pembunuh, tapi Bapak nggak kejam,” she continued in a soft voice. “Bapak tahu mereka punya akses ke hal-hal yang tetap bisa menjaga kualitas hidup mereka. Anak-anak itu nggak akan tumbuh di jalanan seperti kamu, Sancaka.”

When he looked up, Cantika had the kindest, softest smile for him, and his heart ached with something that he didn’t understand. 

Cantika let go of his hand to pet his hair. “Ini semua bukan salah kamu.”

_But trauma is still trauma, _Sancaka didn’t say. He leaned in to her touch and let himself feel content, just for a moment. 

If Cantika thought he wasn’t guilty, then it was enough.

_It had to be enough. _


	2. kaleh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did she think was going to happen, yelling at a Javanese mythical goddess in _English?_ If the goddess didn’t respond to her when she spoke Javanese, she certainly was not going to receive the reaction she wanted in English. Nani sighed heavily, chin held in her hands, mind racing a hundred kilometers an hour, trying to decipher what this all meant. 
> 
> She touched the sumping curled around ear. Still so stubbornly, devastatingly silent. 
> 
> “Please, Dewi Sri,” she huffed out into the sky. “I need you.”
> 
> The clouds shifted, the sun starting to set in the west, but for Nani, everything stayed the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mohon maaf lama, yg nulis dua-duanya seminggu ini sibuk ngedemo negara.
> 
> anyway! here is chapter two, or as i like to call it: nani wijaya is a whole ass layered lasagna. she got issues. also, the graphic violence warning is at play in this chapter, so please read with caution! 
> 
> without further ado, enjoy :D

In her dreams, she was back at Kolam Segaran.

Nani was eight years old again, travelling around Central and East Java on her mother’s quest to get her reintroduced to Javanese history and culture. Wulan was still with them, and her mother took her along to watch the sunset in Prambanan, attend a _ pewayangan _ show in Borobudur, splash around in the ancient baths. Mojokerto had been their last stop, and Nani had been looking forward to it for the entire vacation. Since her great-grandmother had told her that she was one of the descendants of the last of the princesses in Majapahit, she hadn’t been able to shut up about it. It was probably only true in the sense that all humans are descendants of Adam and Eve, but it meant everything for eight-year-old Nani, who was getting sick of being called _ bule. _

On the last day, the tour agency brought them to three different candis. Nani spent most of the visits gawking in awe at the relief, the lush spread of green that surrounded it like nature’s own carpet. Wulan challenged her into a game of hide and seek, and Nani all but happily obliged, finding hiding spots behind tall rock foundations or trees, trying not to laugh as Wulan came closer. 

Kolam Segaran in Trowulan became their last stop. The plan of the day was to have a picnic on the grass, enjoy the setting sun, but Nani was eight and also couldn’t stand still, so of course she roped Wulan into a game of tag. It was a busy day for the tourist attraction; there were other families enjoying a picnic by the pond, too, letting their kids run along the pond.

Nani could recreate what happened minute by minute—one of the kids tripped and fell into the pond, and without thinking, Nani jumped after him. She remembered her mother yelling her name, Wulan trying to follow her but held back by a tour guide. She ignored them all. 

Nani held her breath and went under, grappling in the murky water for the boy’s body, but her hand found no purchase in the dark. There was nothing, nothing at all. Nani swam to the surface, but every time she got closer, it only seemed to inch away until she started losing consciousness.

When she woke, _ cold _was the first thing she registered, ice like she’d never known before, biting into her very bones. But it was gone in a split second, and when she opened her eyes, she was floating not in water, but among the clouds in the sky. In awe, she reached out, trying to take for herself a fistful of clouds, but they dissipated in her grip like smoke. When she unfurled her fist, there were pearls left, glistening under the sunny sky. 

“Kamu tidak bisa mencuri awan, anak manis,” a melodic voice said. The most beautiful woman Nani had ever laid her eyes on rose from her throne among the clouds, her hair jet black, her skin smooth as silk. She wore the clothes of a Central Javanese bride, but Nani was aware that this was not a wedding. “Awan bukan milikmu.”

Stunned by the sight, all Nani could do was stare. She meant to ask who the woman was, and the words in her head were in Indonesian, the first language she learned, but what came out instead is,

“Panjenengan sinten, nggih?”[1]

Nani blinked. She never spoke in that language before—did it roll of her tongue so easily?

The woman laughed, and it sounded better than any of the songs Nani ever heard. “Wis suwi aku ngenteni awakmu, Nani Wijaya.”[2]

“Panjenengan kok saget weruh asmi kulo?”[3] Nani asked. “Kalih, kulo kok saget matur kangge—boso nopo niki?”[4]

“Oalah, Nduk, kabeh boso ki aku ngerti. Mbok kowe ngomong nggawe coro Londo, aku yo ngerti,”[5] the woman said, stepping into a cloud that brought her closer to little Nani. Up close, she was even more beautiful than Nani could imagine. “Nanging sing paling penting, aku isok ndelok uripmu—_ takdirmu_.”[6]

“Panjenengan saget mirsani panghuripan kulo?”[7]

The woman smiled. “Saya bisa melakukan segala hal yang kamu bayangkan, anak manis.” 

“Wow,” Nani said, “Jadi _ panjengan _bisa bikin permen kapas segede gajah?”

The smile on her face turned mischievous. “Perhatikan,” she said, and the second she snapped her fingers, clouds started rearranging themselves into a giant ball. Pink powders rained down on it, turning the clouds slowly pink in color, and as a finishing touch, a giant plastic stick flew in its direction, piercing the bottom of the ball, creating the biggest cotton candy Nani had ever seen in her life. It was most definitely bigger than her house. 

Nani shrieked in glee, and she started running to it, but as she did, the candy suddenly dissipated, getting smaller and smaller, until all that was left was a tiny floof of spun sugar. She caught it in her hands, but the sun was melting it rapidly, and soon Nani had none. She turned to the woman, scandalized. 

“Kok hilang?” she asked her.

“Iya, hilang,” the woman agreed. 

“Kenapa?” Nani asked. 

“Karena kamu adalah Sri Asih, dan sebagai Sri Asih, kamu tidak boleh berlena-lena menikmati kehidupan sampai semua rakyatmu hidup makmur,” the woman said. With a snap of her fingers, the sky crumbled, and Nani fell into a sea of rice fields. There were farmers milling all around her, but they did not seem to notice her—or the floating stunning woman next to her, for that matter. 

“Dulu tidak selalu begini,” the woman said. “Dulu, tanah ini tidak subur, yang ada hanya tanaman kering, tandus. Musim kemarau tidak berhenti-henti, dan tanaman tidak ada yang tumbuh.” As she talked, the rice around them began to wilt, leaving behind a barren land, and the farmers around them collapsed to their knees, suddenly so thin that Nani could see their ribs through the thin fabric of their clothes. Nani ran to the one closest to her, but her hand went through, like a hologram. 

She glanced back at the woman, pained. “Tolong mereka, saya mohon! Mereka kelaparan!”

“Jangan takut, anak manis. Aku memang melakukan sesuatu,” the woman continued easily. “Dulu, aku juga seperti kamu. Ingin membantu rakyatku yang menderita.” A young woman appeared in the middle of the field, and if possible, she was more beautiful than the woman standing next to her now. The woman nudged her close to the young woman so Nani could her what she was saying. 

“Aku apene budal nang Kahyangan,”[8] the young woman was saying. “Kapene nyuwun ning dewa-dewi gawe ngewehi kene sawah sing subur nganti tahun ngarep.”[9]

“Budal nang Kahyangan?” one of the farmers said. “Tiksnawati, manungso koyo kene iso mati!”[10]

Tiksnawati shook her head, determination the only thing in her eyes. “Kene kudu ono sing nyubo.”[11] She looked at the farmers gathering around her, as if remembering their faces one by one. “Untuk rakyat, saya harus mencoba.”

“Itu tadi saya,” the woman said. “Saya dulu cantik ya, Nani?” she asked, like she wasn’t the most beautiful thing Nani had ever seen in her life. 

“Tiksnawati mengendarai awan menuju Kahyangan, dan siapa kira, dewa-dewi mendengarnya,” the woman went on, and in a flash, the rice fields were gone, and they were back among the clouds again. This time, a massive palace unlike the _ candi _Nani had visited stood tall before them, expanding to lengths Nani didn’t have the sight to see. Nani followed Tiksnawati into the palace, kneeling down in the hall of the gods. 

“Saat dia kembali ke bumi, tanaman semuanya kembali subur,” the scenery shifted quickly, and Nani was standing again in the middle of the rice field, slowly growing to be harvested. Tiksnawati descended from the clouds to the embrace of her people, and the smile on her face sent warmth into Nani’s chest. “Selama setahun, orang-orang hidup dalam perdamaian. Namun, setelah setahun silam, tanaman mereka kembali gagal panen.”

Nani blinked, and the same eerie scene of bone-thin farmers collapsing on their knees greeted her once more. Again, Tiksnawati stood in front of her people of farmers, reassuring them that the gods would restore their crops. “Tiksnawati kembali ke Kahyangan,” the woman narrated, “Tapi kali ini, raja dari pada dewa, Batara Guru, menginginkan sesuatu darinya.”

Nani’s head was pounding, trying to fathom the rapid changes of her scenery. In the hall of the gods, unlike last time, there was only Tiksnawati and Batara Guru, who towered over intimidatingly, his shadow spreading across the room. She saw Batara Guru whisper something in Tiksnawati’s ears, and she strained to hear it, but she couldn’t. Tiksnawati, looking startled, took three steps back, but the king of the gods seized her by the arm. 

“Dan ketika dia tidak nurut...” the woman watched passively as the scene unfold, looking demure. “Batara Guru membunuhnya.”

Batara Guru brandished a blade. Nani’s blood went cold—she knew what Batara Guru was going to do, and every nerve ending in her body was screaming at her to help, to _ do something _, but she was frozen in her place. She could only scream as the king of the gods drove the blade into her heart. Tiksnawati’s body fell from his grip, lifeless, and with little care, the king of gods kicked her body out of the palace. 

Nani stared at the woman. “Apakah _ panjengan _ ini… hantu? _ Panjenengan _tadi barusan dibunuh!”

The woman shook her head fondly. “Sabar, anak manis.” With a wave of her hand, the palace disappeared into the clouds, and Nani was once again floating among the clouds. “Coba perhatikan, di antara awan-awan.”

Nani did as she was told—through the gap in the clouds, she could see that Tiksnawati’s body had fallen, the red of her blood seeping into the wilted crops. “Para petani marah sekali karena anak yang tidak berdosa dibunuh oleh Batara Guru,” the woman said. “Untuk menghormati jasanya, mereka mengadakan pemakaman paling khidmat untuknya. Namun, ketika dia dikubur, sesuatu yang ajaib terjadi. Dari kuburannya, muncul berbagai macam tanaman!” 

Nani tried to name all of them—she watched in awe as coconuts, bananas, corn, sugar palm, and tubers grew out of her grave. 

“Dan yang terpenting,” the woman pointed at her grave, “padi.”

Seeds exploded out of her grave. One by one, the seeds started to germinate, the skin breaking to reveal a thin, white seedling. Slowly, the seedlings thickened into a bright green stem. From the stem, tillers started to grow, elongating into the length of her palm. The first of the flowers sprouted, tiny white wisps that danced in the wind. And then rain poured, ripening the flowers into the grains that Nani recognized from science books. The farmers rushed to collect them, turning the sad affair of Tiksnawati’s funeral into that of a celebration. 

“_ Panjengan _ ngebuat nasi?” Nani turned to the woman. 

The woman nodded. “Pengorbanan yang saya lakukan mengangkat derajat saya ke Kahyangan,” she explained. “Nama saya _banyak, _tapi kamu bisa panggil saya Dewi Sri, dan saya adalah dewi penjaga para rakyat.” Rows of women suddenly appeared behind her, wearing different clothes from different periods, different faces and skin tones, but Nani could see the same thing burning in their eyes: determination. “Dari generasi ke generasi, saya menjaga kedamaian dunia ini dengan memilih satu wanita yang paling berani dari generasinya. Wanita, yang saya tahu, rela mengorbankan hal yang paling berharga baginya untuk kepentingan rakyat. Wanita-wanita ini adalah Sri Asih.”

She floated towards Nani with her hands clasped together. “Nani Wijaya, kamu adalah Sri Asih di generasi ini,” she declared. 

“Aku?” Little Nani’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Tapi—aku cuma anak kecil!”

“Waktunya tidak akan lama lagi, Nani,” Dewi Sri said. “Kamu harus mulai berlatih dari kecil.”

“Berlatih?”

Dewi Sri unclasped her hands, and two beautiful earpieces materialized in her hands, the gold gleaming under the sun. “Sri Asih harus bisa mendengar,” Dewi Sri said, fastening the earpieces around her ears. “Sumping ini saya berikan agar kamu bisa mendengar suara mereka yang membutuhkan.” 

Nani felt around her ears for the jewelry—they were too big on her little ears, but beautiful, nonetheless. 

And then, out of thin air, a piece of long red fabric came into being. With a gentleness that even her mother wasn’t capable of, Dewi Sri draped the fabric around her neck. “Selendang ini adalah pelindung semua Sri Asih,” she said, kneeling so they were eye-level. “Nani, gunakanlah hadiah dariku dengan baik. Dunia ini butuh kamu selamatkan.”

Nani caressed the fabric of the selendang. It felt smoother than anything she had ever worn, thick, but nothing like a wool; thin and soft, but better than silk. “Tunggu,” she looked up at the beautiful woman, “Aku menyelamatkan dunia dari siapa?”

“Musuh terbesarmu,” Dewi Sri said, “Namanya adalah—”

And in classic prophecy fashion, this was the point that Nani usually woke up. 

Today was no different. She jolted awake, her dream cut short by the wailing of her two alarms coming from two different phones, and couldn’t even find the strength to be pissed at the timing. 

She reached for her non-work phone. She had no new messages or missed calls, which was fantastic and sad at the same time, but there was a notification that alerted her to a new news article. She clicked on it out of habit. 

Dirga’s smiling face immediately greeted her. 

She slammed her phone back onto the bed, screen-side down, frustration and guilt eating at her. Flashes of last night began exploding behind her eyelids. Her lead scientist’s — god, maybe there was some truth to what he said about her, _ she _ was an asshole, he had worked at the company for _ months _and she had yet to remember his name — snide comments at her, Wulan’s cold shoulder, Dirga’s free-fall. Too much had happened last night that she felt bone-deep tired, and she slept for a full six hours last night. 

Herein laid the fact: the sumping didn’t work. Dirga was in the same room as her, and she couldn’t—didn’t—hear his suffering. And what good would Sri Asih do, when she failed to respond to the suffering of her own people?

With a heavy sigh, Nani forced herself out of bed. There was an early morning interview to address the tragedy that happened during last night’s party, and as the head of Research and Development, the host of the party, Nani had to appear and make certain statements. Nani would like nothing more but to sleep for another seventy hours, but she had to put on face as Nani Wijaya, darling of media, heiress to the Wijayas, therefore she had to appear functional.

She took the shortest shower in the history of her life, not feeling she should indulge in the luxury of hot water, and put on the same white suit she always wore to work. Her pair of of sumping lay on her vanity table, and she spent a minute just looking at them, wondering if she’d made a mistake that somehow compelled Dewi Sri to take the power out of them. But if she had, Dewi Sri would talk to her, in dreams or in day-time prophecies—she wouldn’t go radio silence on Nani. That wasn’t what the goddess told her. 

She picked them up gingerly, fitting them around her ears. Her reflection in the mirror was of a young, brilliant businesswoman, but she felt nothing but. 

“Let’s hope you actually work,” she breathed out, and braced herself for the long day ahead.

* * *

Wulan rubbed her eyes with a shaky hand. She didn’t sleep at all last night, right after the gala. Didn’t even get the chance to change her clothes, because—everything happened so _ quick. _

She could still vividly recall the blood and goo splatter all over the marble-white floor and the cold asphalt; could still view with clarity in her eyes the deformed corpse of a former man, free-falling to his demise. 

The imagery made her stomach revolt, so she shook her head and pushed it all away. These details wouldn’t need to come up in the piece of her story—she wouldn’t want for Dirga Utama’s children to google their father’s name, years later, only to find yet another undignified news about his passing—let sham news outlets like Tribunnews and Detik capitalize off of those clickbaits. Wulan wouldn’t let her piece add to their grief. 

She sighed, blinking her eyes several times to repel the deep alluring call of slumber. The laptop in front of her seemed to be glowing brighter by the second. She looked at the clock on the corner of the screen; 5.30 AM.

“Mbak Wulan semaleman nggak tidur?” 

Teddy’s sleepy voice jolted Wulan in surprise, the coffee in her left hand spilling slightly to her worn couch. Her little brother was awake already, which meant that Wulan needed to get him ready for school, and get herself ready for work. “Nggak, Mbak ada lemburan,” She said, offering Teddy a small smile as she pushed her laptop screen slightly and placed the drink to the table. “Tumbenan anak kecil bisa bangun sendiri, nggak usah susah-susah _ diuyag _ biar _ tangi?” _She joked, ruffling Teddy’s head.

Her little brother grumbled nonsensical phrases, though he leaned to her touch. “Udah gede, Mbak.” He half-heartedly defended himself. “Udah kelas 3 SD, tau nggak.” 

Wulan laughed, giving Teddy a quick hug. “Ya udah, anak gede,” She teased him, “Siap-siap duluan sana.” She told him, pointing the direction to the bathroom as she did so. 

Teddy, though, adamantly shook his head. “Gak mau,” He whined. “Airnya dingin, jam segini—Mbak Wulan duluan aja yang mandi.” He motioned his hand to Wulan’s batik dress, “dari semalem Mbak Wulan nggak mandi, nggak ganti baju kan? Pasti bau.” He added, cheekily. 

Gritting her teeth playfully, Wulan pinched Teddy’s chubby cheeks. “Haduh, kamu nih ya, banyak alasan.” She said, as Teddy let out an unbridled laughter. “Ya udah. Mbak dulu yang mandi. Tapi habis mbak selesai, langsung kamu, gak pakai _ ngeles _lagi, oke?”

She was replied by a mock-salute and a “Siap, Ibu Presiden,” and she laughed, kissing the crown of his head before heading to the shower. As Teddy had predicted, the water was dead cold, but Wulan faced it head on—scooping a dipperful of water straight to her head. It helped to untie the stress that seemed to form knots in her body, to shock her awake, so she wasn’t really complaining. 

Wulan went out 15 minutes later, fresh and feeling slightly better, to find Teddy fixating his attention to the morning news show. 

“..._ dan kemarin malam, salah satu anggota DPR, Dirga Utama, ditemukan tewas di depan gedung The Ballroom Convention Center. Korban dinyatakan meninggal di tempat, dan saat ini polisi masih menyelidiki penyebab kematian korban. Saksi mata menyatakan bahwa korban melompat dari lantai 3 _ — _ ” _

An unexpected image of Dirga Utama, smiling and happy, wearing the exact same suit he wore last night, popped into the view, and Wulan immediately wrestled the remote from Teddy’s hand, changing in randomly until finding a cartoon channel. Her heart was pounding the whole time. 

“Anak gede tuh, nontonnya kartun,” Wulan tried to nonchalantly joke, but her voice came out distant and far away, as if she was detached from herself. 

Teddy turned his attention at her, eyes observing. “Itu tempat acara mbak kemarin malem, kan?” He asked, instead, “yang expo-expo itu?” 

Wulan gulped, silently dreading Teddy’s unmatched attention to details. Perhaps vigilance was a hereditary trait, after all. “Iya,” She said, slowly and reluctantly nodding. “Udah, ayo, Ted, mandi—”

“Itu beneran meninggal, Mbak?”

Her words were halted, and her tongue suddenly grew stiff and uncooperative. Teddy looked at her with a half-expectant, half-fearful look, and this was _ exactly _why Wulan didn’t like Teddy looking at the news—there had been too many dreads for her little brother to shoulder, he didn’t need any more burden. 

“Mbak?” Teddy asked, again, when Wulan didn’t answer.

Wetting her lips, Wulan reluctantly opened her lips. “Iya,” her voice came out small and slightly dreadful. 

Teddy’s eyes widened, and he looked at her in something akin to shock. “Katanya—” he said, hesitantly, “Katanya tadi meninggalnya karena lompat. Itu—” he said, biting his lower lip. “Itu beneran, Mbak?” 

Sighing, Wulan ran her fingers through her wet hair. If she answered _ no, _ it would be lying, and she _ hated _ lying to Teddy. But if she answered _ yes, _then—then she didn’t want to subject Teddy to the horror imagery she saw last night.

_ The brain matter, the grotesque pose, and oh, good God, the _ ** _blood_ **—

“Udah, gak usah dipikirin.” Wulan finally settled, nudging her little brother softly. “Kamu sekarang siap-siap berangkat sekolah, ya?” She told him, more of a plea than an order. Teddy seemed hesitant to let the topic go, but moved from his seat anyway, brushing his fingers to Wulan’s hand, as if trying to soothe her. Funny—she was supposed to be the one doing that for him.

In Teddy’s wake, the TV—currently showing _ Doraemon _ , a cartoon Wulan thought could never expire—felt too loud and intruding, so she turned it off. Instead, she looked back at her laptop, skimming the progressing story at her Word. Her hands hovered on the keyboard, experimentally typing some words, then deleting it, then typing again, then deleting it. _ God, _ she thought, _ This was one of the hardest story she’d ever written. _

Well, no other story of hers had her watching a man’s demise live, so she guessed that the consequences were a given. 

She closed her word, saved all the changes, and checked her phone, then. Her boss was already looking for her, demanding her to be present at the joint Press Conference between DPR and Wijaya Expo, this morning at 9. _ Lo kan yang lihat langsung, Lan. Yang tanggung jawab ngeliput acaranya juga. Kalo gue ngirim yang lain, kagak nyambung, dong, _read her superior’s rather insensitive text. 

Groaning, Wulan _ wanted _ to say no; after all, no other standard job would require her to be a witness to gruesome freefall of a congressman, and attending the Press Conference would heighten her chance of meeting— _ her _—again. Besides, it was supposed to be a one-time-job; she was supposed to be focusing on profiling her latest subject for Focus Features. 

Wulan fished the business card Mr. Haedar Subandi had given her last night from her wallet, staring intently at the numbers given there. He did say last night that she could call him anytime, so she could give him a call; conveniently schedule an interview this morning, and then tell her boss that she had a clashing schedule. Her superior knew about the Focus Features segment—he would understand.

Wulan opened her dialler, intending to do just that, but then Dirga’s face popped up in her mind, this time directly followed by his wailing wife and confused children, squeezing Wulan’s heart without warning. Her hand stopped, hovering over the dial pad, and then immediately closed the app. Instead, she hopped onto browser, typed several keywords on the search bar on google, and pressed ‘search’; what greeted her were several click-baity news, some even displaying the barely-censored crime-scene photos of Dirga’s death.

She’d promised herself; a nuanced, dignified story—if not for Dirga, then for his _ children. _

Reaffirming her resolve, she complied with her superior’s request—the interview with Mr. Subandi could come _ later _. Wulan sighed and closed her laptop, picking her stuff from the table and throwing the remnants of the coffee to the sink. By the time she was done tidying her small loft, Teddy was already dandily waiting, all suited up and combed. 

“Ayo Mbak Wulan, nanti aku telat,” he whined, and Wulan merely shook her head, ushering him to go outside and catch the next busway.

It took Wulan approximately one-and-a-half hour from Teddy’s school to the Wijaya Industry building. Without a personal vehicle, hopping stations and public transportation had become second nature to her. By the time she arrived, it was 2 minutes to 9 AM, and everyone else had arrived. Wulan could recognize her fellow journalists from different news outlets. 

“Wulan!” called one of the reporters—Anjani, from OkeZone, who seemed to always have the best, yet most questionable sources for her stories. “Sini!” She patted a seat next to her, upfront. Wulan graciously took her offer, muttering a grateful thanks as she did so. As she settled, Anjani leaned over and whispered, inconspicuously. “Lo katanya semalem disana, ya? Lihat langsung?”

Offering her a tight smile, Wulan nodded. 

“Wah, anjir, _ chaos _ sih.” Anjani sighed, shaking her head. “Gua dapet foto-fotonya kan dari _ broadcast _WA. Gila, sadis banget jatuhnya.” 

Wulan narrowed her eyes, “Gak lo sebarin, kan?” she asked, immediately. Imagining a mangled body of a former man, in full-display, sent into unsuspecting groups online, churned her stomach. No one deserved that kind of disrespect, dead or alive. 

“Ya _ nggak, _ lah, gila apa,” Said Anjani, fixing her veil, “Bisa di- _ kick _ gua dari grup-grup gua. Lagian _ mager, _jijik banget.” She scrunched her nose in disgust, before turning at Wulan. “Lo mau liat? Gua kirimin ke lo dah, sapa tau bisa buat bahan.” 

Wulan merely gave her a performatory smile, shaking her head. She didn’t need to see those types of pictures—but she doubted that Anjani saw her refusal, as she was already engrossed in her phone. Wulan could already feel her phone buzzing from incoming messages, and made a mental note to immediately delete the pictures later. 

In regular Indonesian fashion, the event was about 10 minutes late, and Wulan had already set up her recorder and laptop by the time everyone important came up the stage. 

It was a weird assemble: law enforcement and DPR each sent one representation, along with Dirga Utama’s wife, who looked heavily shaken and needed to have another person to hold her close. Wulan’s eyes skimmed the line-up and caught on _ her, _then—

Nani had bags under her eyes, just like she used to when they were young and she was under so much stress, and for a while Wulan forgot about her simmering anger to the Wijayas, wanting to ask her if she was okay. 

But then her memory slammed her with images of the Wijayas, ignoring her as she begged for their aid, for her mother, then for herself—the Wijayas, ordering a maid to cover her bruises and wounds with a thick foundations to then parade her in front of dramatic photoshoots to boost their images, and _ Nani, _standing in the sidelines, pretending that she didn’t see any of the atrocities committed to Wulan. 

The empathy in Wulan’s chest hardened, melted back to that age-old grudge she’d known so well, and she looked away from her former childhood best friend. Instead, she focused her attention to one of the more surprising sources of the Press Conference—the Lead Scientist that caught her taking shrimps for Teddy, last night. 

_ Well, it made sense, _ Wulan thought, _ Last night’s show was a celebration for his department’s achievements, after all. _Still his presence here surprised her, and it seems that hers also surprised him, as his eyes caught hers, looking rather dumbfounded. Wulan offered him a small smile, and barely caught his quick tug of lips before one of the lineups came forward.

“Selamat siang.” It was a uniformed policeman, face tired and slightly gaunt. Wulan couldn’t blame him; last night’s incident must have been a painful slap to the police, who’d guard the ballroom heavily at every corner. “Saya Kombespol Riadi Purnomo, dari Mabespolri Djakarta Pusat,” he continued, leaning over to the mic. “Seperti yang telah diketahui saudara-saudara sekalian, kemarin malam, salah satu anggota Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, Dirga Utama, telah dinyatakan meninggal dunia di Wijaya Expo.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “Kami saat ini telah meluncurkan investigasi menyeluruh, dan mengeksplorasi segala kemungkinan. Namun, beberapa petunjuk awal mengindikasikan bahwa kejadian ini merupakan insiden bunuh diri.” 

There was a pained groan from Dirga’s wife, and she sobbed at her aide’s shoulder, her choked-up sobs squeezing Wulan’s heart in each their stutters. Wulan eyed the rest of the line-up; they were looking away, squirming, seemingly uncomfortable.

But the Lead Scientist’s face intrigued her the most.

He looked… _ guilty _. Like the incident was somehow his fault. 

The Commissioner then went on, explaining preliminary results showed that Dirga didn’t have any indication of externally-inflicted, abusive wounds prior to his death, and that early examinations showed that Dirga didn’t have toxic substances in his bloodstream. His death was caused by a blunt force trauma, nothing else.

True to the Commissioner’s words, all evidences seemed to point out to suicide, but something in Wulan’s chest tugged, like she was missing something, _ something important. _

The next to take the stand was a DPR member—Ridwan Bahri, Wulan recalled his name. He didn’t provide any new information, merely praising Dirga and saying what an honorable man he was, how delightful it was working with him during their short collaboration, how he would be missed, and how, in his honor, the DPR is going to construct a hall under his name. 

_ Huh. _ Wulan was momentarily distracted with that information, _ bet that’s gonna be a new field for budget corruption. _

And then—then it was Dirga’s wife. 

She needed help standing up, and even had to be held close as she approached the mic. “Suami saya—” she began with a dried, throaty voice. “Suami saya orang b-baik.” she stuttered, words coming out chopped and hazy. “Dia s-sayang sekali sama—sama kedua anak kami—Sadhah dan Sas-Sasha—dan ingin me-melihat mereka tumbuh be-besar.” Her tone was shaky, and Wulan noted as she clutched her aide’s hand tighter, as if begging for reassurance. “K-kami dari—dari keluarga memohon—memohon sangat untuk tidak menye-menyebarkan berita yang kurang—kurang mengenakkan—” she choked, chortled up on her sentences, her breath coming in shaky and vulnerable. “Ka-kami cuma—cuma ingin agar—agar Papanya anak-anak bisa beristirahat dengan _ tenang.” _

If Wulan’s heart didn’t break when Dirga’s wife started speaking, her heart definitely shattered now, as the woman finally broke down to quiet sobs, burying herself to her aide’s chest as she was led away from the podium. Wulan trained her eyes around her fellow journalist peers, and she could identify the clickbait-news-writers—they were the ones who’d already furiously written through their notepads and sneakily took pictures of the grieving woman onstage.

Exploitation of grief was, after all, the best type of mass-gatherers. 

She turned her eyes at the lineup again, and noticed that the Lead Scientist’s squirms were subtle but ever-present; like this event was suffocating him, like he knew something they _ didn’t, _and it was killing him slowly. 

And then it was _ his _turn—his and Nani’s, to be exact, as both of them approached the podium at the same time, trying to get as close as possible to the mic without touching one another. Nani was standoffish at him, and he looked at Nani like she had an unredeemable sin to his existence.

_ Touche, _ Wulan thought, idly, because she definitely could relate to _ that. _

They introduced themselves—apparently his name was _ Sancaka, _ like the Soerabaja-Djogja train—and proceeded to express formal condolences from the company regarding Dirga’s passing. They also announced plans for opening a suicide prevention foundation under his name. Wulan’s smirk turned sour; it was a classic Wijaya fashion—to use devastation as part of ways to boost their image. She knew, for a fact, that Wijaya Industries didn’t give a _ shit _about people’s suffering, not unless the blood staining their pristine white floors was known by the public.

Wulan thought about the housemaids and servants she left behind in her escape, and wondered how they were faring now. Had God been kinder to them, and opened a way out the way He did to her? 

Nani did most of the talk, her confident tone mismatching her hollow eyes, and Sancaka didn’t even try to hide his discomfort at all. His demeanor was similar to when she saw him last night—unsettled and out of place.

Wulan scribbled all of the relevant information needed in her notepad—but then she paused, contemplating, and opened another page; scribbling her odd observations in a different file.

The Press Conference didn’t offer a Q&A session, and the journalists around her merely grumbled as they took their leave. Wulan herself was tidying her equipment as she listened to Anjani complaining about the lack of forum given to journalist to pursue clarity. Wulan nodded in-between pauses, trying to appear that she listened even though she really wasn’t. 

And then from her peripheral vision, she saw Nani, making way into her, and Wulan immediately hastened her movement. “Eh, udah ya,” she said, grabbing Anjani by the shoulders, cutting her mid-rant. “Gua mau balik dulu ke kantor. Dah.” 

She practically ran more than walked to avoid Nani pursuing her, and when she saw the elevator door opening, she all but yelled, “Tahan!” before gracelessly jumping to the lift, exhaling as she saw the doors closing on Nani just as she was getting close.

She was so busy being relieved, she didn’t realize her only companion in the elevator, until he opened his mouth and asked, “Lari dari siapa?” 

Wulan whipped her head, surprised, at the sight of the Lead Scientist—_ Sancaka? _—looking back at her with tired, yet curious eyes. Out of all the people, she didn’t expect him to be the one she’d stuck in an elevator with.

“Ah, nggak.” She said, hastily. “Buru-buru aja—ada kerjaan di kantor.” 

“Ooh,” said Sancaka, nodding slowly, clearly not believing her words. “Gimana, udangnya? Adik kamu suka?” 

Wulan blushed, under the dim lighting of the elevator. She didn’t expect him to remember _ that. _“Yah, gitu.” She said, vaguely, mind recalling Teddy’s excited feast at the packed shrimp she brought home last night. “Kamu gimana?” She diverted the conversation. 

“Hm?”

“Kamu—” She paused, hesitantly. How could she brought up his radiating guilt without being offensive. “Kamu… gak apa?” She asked, finally. “Kemarin malam—”

Immediately, Sancaka’s demeanor changed. Not angry, or surprised, but rather… remorseful. He discreetly fiddled the insides of his cufflinks, an Wulan could see hints of metal bands enclasping his wrists. “Yah, gitu,” he echoed her answer, his tone rather morose. 

Something inside Wulan tugged at the sound of his voice, and it took her awhile to identify that it was _ sympathy. _“Hey,” She said, solemnly, “Cuma karena meninggalnya di acaramu, bukan terus jadi salahmu,” she tried to offer him solace.

He looked up to see her in surprise, like he didn’t expect reassurance from her. He offered her a quiet, “makasih, eh,” and a small smile, then, and Wulan grinned back, a little warmth spreading through her chest at the sight of his lips tugging upwards. “Nama kamu siapa?”

She was about to answer, but then the elevator dinged, and it opened, and Wulan remembered why she was being hasty in the first place. “Eh, duluan ya,” she immediately said, giving him a quick wave. She didn’t even catch his reaction, already skipping two steps at a time to get off the building as soon as possible. 

In the busway to the office, Wulan’s head kept returning back to Dirga Utama’s wife, crumbling and breaking in public, begging for remnants of her husband’s dignity. She imagined his children, perhaps taking a day off from school, accompanied by a nanny, repetitively asking where was Daddy, and the warmth from Sancaka’s smile was once again replaced with dread from the imagery. 

Sighing, she shook her head. Dirga Utama’s death was sad, yes, but she shouldn’t let it consume her. She rummaged through her wallet, picking up Mr. Subandi’s card out, and this time, really dialled the number. She ended up getting an interview schedule in two days, and received an address of Mr. Subandi’s office.

Perhaps pursuing a completely different story could clear her head off this tragedy. 

* * *

Nani emptied her mind and focused on the sound of water. 

The backyard garden at her childhood home was her favorite spot to destress after a long day. It made moving out a difficult ordeal — the apartment in Menteng had a rooftop garden, but it was nowhere as serene as this, or as beautiful. It started out as a hobby for her grandmother, then as her family grew in numbers, others started adding their own touch to the garden. Tulip flowers from her cousins in the Netherlands, an impressive orchid collection brought by her father’s side of the family, and a yellow-beaked parrot — who didn’t shut up unless Nani gave him fresh corn — probably acquired from less than legal means from an uncle Nani never liked. 

Her father added a pond and gifted it to her for her tenth birthday — though looking back, he probably was just using that as an excuse to grow his collection of _ koi _ fish, and it was a bonus that Nani ended up loving it. The pond was a meter deep, one and a half in length, and fifty centimeters in width. Her father designed it after the traditional baths of the royals at _ keraton _, which was convenient, considering what she was trying to do. 

“Dewi Sri,” she breathed out slowly, “kulo niki memohon dimateng panjenengan — “

Wait, what was the word? 

With an annoyed huff, she opened the Moleskine notebook lying next to her, frantically searching for a specific page where she’d written down exactly the words she wanted to say to Dewi Sri. When she found it, she began reading aloud, “Kulo niki nyuwun dimateng panjenengan babakan kadadean ingkang pun kadados injing dalu. Kulo nyuwun pitulung panjenengan kangge dados Sri Asih ingkang sae tinimbang sakniki, kangge ncegah hal hal kolo wau mboten di ulangake mbesuk malih.”[12]

She looked up to the sky. Nothing. 

“Goddammit,” she threw the notebook into her lap. “Hello, Dewi Sri? Are you there?”

Still no answer.

What did she think was going to happen, yelling at a Javanese mythical goddess in _ English _? If the goddess didn’t respond to her when she spoke Javanese, she certainly was not going to receive the reaction she wanted in English. Nani sighed heavily, chin held in her hands, mind racing a hundred kilometers an hour, trying to decipher what this all meant. 

She touched the sumping curled around ear. Still so stubbornly, devastatingly silent. 

“Please, Dewi Sri,” she huffed out into the sky. “I need you.”

The clouds shifted, the sun starting to set in the west, but for Nani, everything stayed the same. 

God—to say that today was a difficult day felt like a massive understatement.

It had been so heartbreaking, to see Bu Dian—Dirga's wife—breaking down like that, in front of camera flashes owned by journalists who would undoubtedly capitalize on her anguish by playing up the tragedy in their headlines. It almost felt like she didn't deserve to be standing on that podium, announcing the creation of Wijaya's suicide prevention foundation. Nani felt guilty, even, unable to shake off the feeling that she was somehow directly responsible. But guilt took her nowhere, and so afterwards, she made a mental note to pour in generous money into Sadhah and Sasha's education funds—it was the least she could do

She saw Wulan again, which was unexpected; she’d thought that with the way that Wulan was last night, she wouldn’t want to be in the vicinity of anyone—or anything—related to the Wijayas. Of course, she ran as soon as Nani tried to approach her. It was only fair, Nani figured, considering the abundance of shit that went down between them—all she wanted to do was apologize, start over, do _ anything _ to mend this broken bridge between them, but perhaps that was not up to her. Nani ignored thoughts about her as best as she could, buried herself in work, but now that there was nothing to distract her, the longing for Wulan filled her chest, all-consuming. The guilt was always there, underneath it all, but it was just like a buzz before—after meeting Wulan, it only doubled in size. 

It didn’t help that Wulan looked so _ enticing _—

She shook her head, immediately putting that train of thought to a stop. This wasn’t the time to be reminiscing on old crushes or feelings. She had dread following her the whole day, and if nothing else, it felt like a sign. 

Nani looked up at the sky again, and, for the last time, she asked again, “Dewi Sri,” she paused, looking around, as if expecting herself to be back among the clouds, “Opo panjengan saget mirsani kulo? Kulo nyuwun pan—”[13]

“Nani!” 

Nani turned around to find her mother running towards her, panic and concern in her face. She kneeled in front of him and gathered Nani’s cheeks in her hands. “Kamu kenapa, Nak?”

Nani could only stare at her in question. “Nggak kenapa-napa, kok?”

“Cah ayu, ngapain di luar pas maghrib, ngomong bahasa Jawa?” her mother said, almost accusingly. “Hampir copot jantung Mama waktu Pak Sukidi bilang kamu sendirian di kebun ngomong bahasa Jawa. Dikirain kesurupan kayak waktu itu.”

Ah, yes. While Nani remembered her trip to Mojokerto as a fond memory, her family certainly did not. She was only gone for ten minutes in the real world, but it was enough to send her entire family into a near hysteria. Two men had jumped into the lake to try to find her, but they couldn’t find her, until Nani finally resurfaced herself, yapping about excitedly about a certain goddess who gave her a _ selendang _ and a pair of _ sumping _. Her grandmother, the only one in the family who still had ties to magic, told her mother that she may have been possessed, while she was drowning, and ever since then, her mother had been suspicious that any Javanese-related activity that Nani did was because she was possessed. 

It would be annoying, if the truth was any easier to explain. _ Hey, Mom, so I wasn’t actually possessed while I was down there, just given the power of an ancient goddess to save the world from a threat that she didn’t tell me yet, but it’s definitely coming! _

“Nggak, Mom,” Nani tried to smile. “Cuma lagi—meditasi aja.”

Her mom still looked skeptical. She was always two minutes away from calling a local exorcist, when it came to these things. She tugged Nani’s hand lightly. “Yowes, masuk, yuk. Nggak enak kalo malam, banyak nyamuk.”

Nani stood up, picking up her notebook as she did so. “Aku kayaknya mau sekalian pulang, Mom.”

“Nggak makan dulu?”

“Nanti aja, aku masih ada kerjaan.” 

Her mom eyed her up and down. “Nggak apa-apa, makannya nanti aja. Kamu gendutan.”

There it was—her mom could never resist from making such comments. She had this stupid rule that if you held up an A4 paper vertically and it didn’t obscure the entirety of your waist, then you were too fat. 

“Kamu iteman juga, loh,” her mom continued as they walked back towards the house. “Kamu gak pake sunblock, ya? Kapan terakhir facial, ke dr. Harsono?”

Nani waved her hand dismissively. “Ya, entar aku ke Smart Skin Center lagi.”

“Jangan entar-entar, ya,” her mom said, putting her hands on her hips. “Entar item, jelek, nggak ada laki yang mau. Nggak punya cucu nanti Mom.”

Nani laughed awkwardly. Here was another difficult conversation she wouldn’t know how to start. _ So here’s the thing, Mom—it really doesn’t matter if I tanned, because no man is ever going to marry me. Mom, I’m gay. Sorry that the Wijaya line ends with me. I guess it’s all up to the cousins, then! _

“Ya, Mom,” she said, putting her Mom’s hand to her forehead in lieu of goodbye. “Aku pulang dulu, ya.”

Her mother was still talking—something about some article about her wearing a bikini in Bali last year, or some other inconsequential thing—but Nani had perfected the art of tuning her out for twenty-four years. She nodded along, hummed at the right places, but her hand was already unlocking her car, reaching for the door handle. She had never been so glad to be inside her car. 

She started her car, just to drown out her voice. 

“Nice to see you, Mom,” she said as she drove away, “I’ll see you soon!”

More later than sooner, but her mom didn’t need to know that. 

Nani sighed, smoothing out the tension that she didn’t notice she had been carrying from her shoulders. Returning to her childhood home brought back so many memories, the good and the bad, trapping Nani in the time where she didn’t feel like she had any authority of what she could do. What she wore, what she ate, with whom she could talk—all of those things were controlled by her mother, all in the name of keeping the good name of the Wijaya dynasty. 

(And Wulan, too, only adopted as a gimmick; the whole time she was with them, until she ran away at the age of seventeen, her mother had been—)

Nani synced her Spotify with the radio, put on the loudest song available from her library, just so she didn’t have to listen to her thoughts. Today had been an avalanche of emotions; the last thing she wanted was to sit in silence with only her thoughts as company.

The 6 PM traffic was, as expected, terrible; thankfully, being born and raised in Jakarta meant that Nani knew all the shortcuts like the back of her hand. Though it meant that she ended up in alleyways barely big enough for her Mercedes more often than not, she managed to avoid traffic successfully. She hit a red light at the intersection that opened to a rail track, harassed by buskers knocking at her windows; they only went away after she gave them a ten-thousand rupiah bill. 

There was only her car waiting at the intersection. The red glow of the traffic light shrouded the area in an eerie glow. Nani reached for her iPhone X, in need of something to distract her mind. She was idly scrolling through Twitter, only half-listening to Kendrick Lamar rapping about being humble, when she heard something through her _ sumping _. 

Nani put down her phone, looked to her left and right. Trying to make sure that she didn’t hear anything wrong. 

But she heard it again—the crackle of lightning.

She didn’t have time to wonder why the hell she would hear lightning when it wasn’t raining outside. She only had half a mind to yell out, “Dewi Sri!” before her car was sent flying, flipping over in the air before landing harshly back on the concrete. Air bags puffed out, a vain attempt to soften the landing, but Nani had already hit her head against the window, and she could feel the blood trickling down her forehead in slow, thick dollops. They’d heal very soon, thanks to Sri Asih’s regenerative abilities, but for now, the pain pounding in the back of her head threatened to render her unconscious—which would not be very good.

She fought to stay awake, letting the strength that began to fill her veins pull her back to consciousness. The _ selendang _appeared magically around her neck, a sign that Dewi Sri’s strength was now fully deposited within her. She took off her seatbelt, and with little effort, punch a hole through the window big enough for her to climb out. 

A pair of shoes greeted her when she stuck her head out. She looked up to see who the shoes belonged to—a figure that was clearly a man, wearing a leather get-up covering him from shoulders down, a helmet with a dark visor on his head. She’d faced assassination attempts before—mostly carried out by jealous rivals of her family’s business—but whatever faced her, she had a feeling it was nothing like she’d faced previously. 

Those same pair of shoes kicked out, barely missing her face as she rolled over to the side, jumping backwards into a fighting stance. The man didn’t miss a beat—she heard another crackle, and in a blink he was running towards her with lightning held in his hands. Jesus—were there any more like her out there? And if yes, why was this one man targeting her?

Nani unwrapped the _ selendang _ from around her neck. As soon as the man neared her, she slapped the _ selendang _on his neck, and immediately, it curled around him as a snake, only tightening when she pulled at it. 

“Siapa yang nyuruh kamu ke sini?” Nani asked. 

The man was clearly choking—the lightning in his hand dimmed, and this close, Nani noticed that he wasn’t conjuring the lightning from within himself. He had on a futuristic-looking gauntlet on his right hand, in a model that Nani was sure she’d seen before in—

“_ Bajingan _ !” the man choked out, grappling at her _ selendang_.

Feeling a little benevolent, she eased her grip just a tiny fraction. “Siapa yang nyuruh kamu bunuh saya?” she demanded. “Kenapa kamu bunuh saya? Siapa kamu?”

“Tidak penting siapa saya,” the man growled. His voice was obscured, Nani realized, some kind of modulator that reminded her awfully of Batman’s. “Lagi pula, saya hanya satu dari sekian yang pernah Anda sakiti.”

_ God _ , Nani thought, _ get in fucking line_. Every day, people threatened to kill her for things that she reportedly did or didn’t do; this guy had to be more specific.

“Apa yang saya lakukan yang buat Anda sebegitu bencinya sama saya?” she said. “Sampai ingin membunuh saya?”

The man cackled mockingly. “Terlalu banyak dosa, sampai lupa, ya?”

_ If you wanted to count, it would be a long day. _

Nani tightened her grip. “Siapa yang mengirim kamu?”

The man ignored her question. “Siapa yang _ tidak _mengirim saya? Anak manja yang tidak tahu terima kasih seperti Anda—Anda tidak berhak memiliki semua yang Anda miliki!”

Nani registered the electric whirr of his gauntlet too late—and what did it say about the power of her sumping, that she could hear him coming but not this?—and in a flash, she was catapulted backwards, her _ selendang’ _s grip coming undone. She hit the ground head-first, and like the first head wound, she felt a powerful pain shooting through her skull. Maybe she would’ve died, if she was any normal human, but she had the power of Dewi Sri on her side. 

… or did she?

Getiting back up, this time, felt like it required more effort than usual. She was standing again, no less, and this time she didn’t want to risk holding back. She shot out her _ selendang _again, this time wrapping around his ankle, and she brought him down in one snap. She launched herself into the air, fist curled, and brought it down on his chest. She heard a crack, and the man wailed in pain, but he didn’t give up—not yet. They wrestled on the ground, punches and kicks thrown, until Nani had him in a deadly head-lock. 

“One move,” she warned him, “Satu gerakan saja, dan aku bisa mematahkan kepalamu.”

Dewi Sri told her that she had the strength of 250 men; she could do it, if she wanted to. 

“Lebih baik saya mati,” the man spat, his voice strained in his windpipe, “dari pada tunduk sama orang seperti Anda!”

He aimed the head of his gauntlet at her face, and this time, it was inevitable—the lightning struck her in the face, forcing her to lose her hold on the man. _ Hot _was the only sensation she could feel for a torturous minute, and pain like no other followed as she braced one hand to the side of her face that was struck by lightning. God—was—was her face just melted off?

The man roared again, charging up his gauntlet again, and Nani covered herself in her _ selendang _ , unable to do anything more than defend herself— _ the half of her fucking face was— _

But what she readied herself for never came. A loud explosion sounded off from where the man was, and when she dared herself to look beyond to shield her _ selendang _had turned into, the man was kneeling on the asphalt, doubling over in agony as he held his gauntlet-clad hand to his chest. 

Or—what used to be his gauntlet-clad hand, anyway. The device itself was smoking, the sleek metal of the weapon busted and black, like it just imploded on itself. Nani could only guess that the hand wearing was in the same state as the gauntlet was. A device malfunction—but something told her that it was more than just that. 

Nani took the opportunity to fucking _ run _.

God, she’d never been this—_ injured _ on a battle. Maybe this whole time she was fighting the easier enemies, those who were easily overpowered by Dewi Sri’s strength. She could take on a whole gang of thugs when the worst they could do was stab or shoot her, but a lightning shooting out of a man? _ That _she didn’t know how to handle. 

Could he be the man Dewi Sri was talking about? If he was, then she was doomed—the fight lasted not even fifteen minutes, but she’d already been left running for her life with half of her goddamn face _ melting _ like fucking wax. Whatever happened to him and his lightning, Nani had a feeling that he would recover, and that wouldn’t be the last of him. 

“Fuck,” she panted, “_ fuck.” _

She tripped over a rock, and she fell on her knees, her palms scraping against the jagged concrete. She had no idea where she was, only that she was far away from the intersection and the wreckage of her car. She didn’t recognize the alleyways that she was in, only that all the doors were closed, no street lights to illuminate the way—just dim, flickering neon signs. She crawled to a shut storefront bearing a glass window, wanting to see if the damage was as bad as she felt, and nearly screamed in terror. 

Half of her face was covered in burns, flakes of charred-skin beginning to come off, exposing the fleshy red underneath. The pain registered all at once—with her hands shaking, she dragged herself away from the glass, hiding in the shadows in between the dark buildings, in too much pain to even cry.

“Dewi Sri,” she managed to whisper, “Tolong—_ sakit— _”

She should be healing. She’d gotten _ shot _once, and the bullets had simply ricocheted off of her skin—why wasn’t she healing, this time? Had Dewi Sri left her, finally realized that Nani was not the woman suitable for the job? 

The man’s words echoed in her hears—_ Anda tidak berhak memiliki semua yang Anda miliki! _

Maybe he was right. She was handed everything on a silver platter. Her privilege, her wealth—how could someone who had never suffered a day in her life be the savior of the country? 

“Dewi Sri,” she breathed, “Kulo duso nopo?”[14]

Had she been more awake, she’d noticed that out of nowhere, she’d switched into speaking in Javanese fluently, without looking at the notes. Her Moleskine notebook was in the car when the man struck her—it was probably un-salvageable by now, taken into custody by the police as evidence, should she die, and it felt very much likely that she would. That being said, all she could focus on now was the silence her _ sumping _ so stubbornly kept. 

She finally decided to give up. Letting her head fall back to whatever cold surface was behind her, she closed her eyes. 

“_ Jesus!” _

Who the hell—

She felt another presence, someone rushing to her side, checking the state of her mangled, ruined face. “Mbak, masih sadar?” A woman, judging by the soft voice. Nani wanted to answer, but even speaking felt like it required an immeasurable amount of effort. She was sure all she managed to get out was a low mumble of gibberish. 

“Mbak, Mbak, tahan ya, Mbak.”

Nani was no longer listening. She gave into the darkness and let it take her under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 anda siapa ya? [return to text]  
2 sudah lama aku menunggumu, Nani Wijaya. [return to text]  
3 anda kok bisa tahu nama saya? [return to text]  
4 Sama, saya kok bisa ngomong pakai-bahasa apa ini? [return to text]  
5 oalah nak, kamu pakai bahasa apapun, saya mengerti. meskipun kamu pakai bahasa asing-pun, saya tetap mengerti. [return to text]  
6 tapi, yang paling penting, saya bisa melihat hidupmu-_takdirmu._ [return to text]  
7 Anda bisa melihat hidup saya? [return to text]  
8 Aku akan pergi ke Kahyangan. [return to text]  
9 mau minta ke dewa-dewi untuk sawah yang subur sampai tahun depan. [return to text]  
10 manusia seperti kita bisa mati! [return to text]  
11 kita harus ada yang mencoba. [return to text]  
12 saya memohon pertolongan kepada anda untuk menjadi Sri Asih yang lebih baik, agar kejadian kemarin tidak terulang kembali. [return to text]  
13 Apakah anda dapat melihat saya? saya memohon per- [return to text]  
14 dosa saya apa? [return to text]


	3. tiga.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jadi, apa Bapak beranggapan kalau semua anak Bapak harus berterima kasih dengan Bapak?”
> 
> A rather bold question, she knew--but Pengkor looked none too surprised. In fact, he looked rather amused. “Apa yang diinginkan seorang Bapak selain anak yang berbakti pada orang tua?” 
> 
> The rhetoric had Wulan wondering. “Apakah kasih sayang kepada anak itu menurut Anda ada syaratnya?”
> 
> Pengkor didn’t answer right away. Behind him, Kamal was still silent, still as a statue, unbothered by the rising tension in the room. “Menjadi Bapak itu pekerjaan yang mulia,” Pengkor said. “Apalagi, Bapak yang memilih anaknya. Orang-orang selalu bilang, blood is thicker than water. Tapi kalimat itu salah. Tau yang benar bagaimana, Bu Wulan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi its us back with chapter 3!!! i hope y'all dont mind the monster size of each of the chapter lmao we swear we try to keep it under 7k but it just kept,,expanding into this monster 
> 
> as always, we hope y'all enjoy it! feedback in the form of kudos and comments feed us

Sancaka was in such excruciating pain--and _ anger-- _the whole way back. 

He had every opportunity to attack; the Goddess Incarnate was struck down already, half the flesh of her face burning off like candle wax. She was weak, disoriented, and _ vulnerable-- _a perfect condition for him to strike his final blow, and finish the goddamn job.

And then--then the lightning decided to fucking _ betray him; _ bending their own way, burning and striking his own gauntlet and, by extension, his goddamn _ arm. _

He didn't even want to unlatch the toasted metal off his flesh on the whole way back--too afraid to see the shape of his hand if he were to do so.

Sancaka didn't understand--he had _ everything _ prepared; his devices were checked thoroughly, over and over again. He'd trained with his siblings, with himself, heck, even with Kamal's illusions. He had summoned the lightning so many times he'd lost count, and yes, they were unstable, and pretty hard to manage--but they never once turned their charge to _ him _.

Until _ now, _of all times.

And now Nani Wijaya, in all her goddess incarnate regalia, had run away.

Walking with a limp and a short breath, a masked face and an all-dark suit, no less--people were bound to look at him strangely; he must've looked like a barely-escaping burglar, running away from the rowdy masses. Sancaka merely grunted, ignoring the blatant glances he got from the people passing through. 

He needed a shelter, but--_ where? _

His apartment was an obvious choice, but it was too far away, and too public. Meanwhile, with the wound he's sustaining, no matter how quick his healing abilities were, he wouldn't be able to reach the place intact, looking like a respectable man. Kak Cantika's place was a plausible second choice, but she said she had a surgery today and might stay at the hospital, so Sancaka wouldn't--couldn't--bother her.

His mind idly whispered; _ Rumah Bapak? _

The thought immediately made Sancaka shudder. Without even considering it, Sancaka banished it from even being an option.

_ Mikir, Sancaka, _ he said to himself, _ ayo, mikir, mau kemana? _

He looked around, desperate for a plausible place, somewhere, _ anywhere, _ that he could seek refuge in. And then his eyes caught the large logo of Wijaya Industries tower, just _ right there, _across the street; his own office.

Some weird turn of fate he had--being decked in a fight with a Wijaya heiress, only to find shelter under their building. If he wasn't in so much pain, Sancaka would laugh at the irony.

Nevertheless, he understood his stakes; any longer staying in the streets with this look was bound to invite unwanted attention--maybe people chasing an escaping _ maling _ that could mistake him for their target, or maybe a bunch of _ preman, _itching for a fight. His options were limited, and, irony or not, Wijaya Industry was his only choice for safety.

Sighing, Sancaka dragged his feet to the building. Thank _ God _he brought his employee tap card.

The tower was dimly lit, and the security was playing poker on their desks, unaware of him sneaking from the back entrance. Sancaka immediately walked to the elevator, barely waiting for the door to close before sliding down its cold walls, letting his wobbly feet to be finally free.

Good _ God _were they sore.

Sancaka sighed, running his non-charred hand across his hair in frustration. This mission felt like a blow--because he never _ failed _ before; succeeding on the first attempt, always, was his brand, one that made Bapak favor him so _ much. _

Failure reminded him of--

_ The white flag in his hand, gripped tight as he ran from Desti's maniacal laughter--only to hit Tanto straight to his chest, and got punched back afterwards--and then there was Mutiara, and Adi with his strings, and Kamal, whispering 'Sare' before he was taken to a psychological _ ** _nightmare--_ **

_ Bapak, looking at his limp, twitching body under the rain afterwards, with a cold, disappointed eyes, before walking away-- _

No. He _ couldn't _ afford the risk of failure. 

By the time he reached the 11th floor, his feet flat out refused to work that Sancaka had to crawl out from the elevator and into his office. Even his knees were trembling as he forced them to prop himself so he could unlatch the keys from the glass-door. And then, when it finally opened, he all but stumbled over, face first, into the carpet of his room.

Thank fuck he had the sense to install soft, fluffy carpet at his floors. 

"Hngh," grunted Sancaka, after a while, finally lifting his face. The pain wasn't so damning, now--he could feel the broken bones mending, the charred skin reassembling inside the gauntlet. He groaned, pulling himself to sit, and then to stand, before rummaging his drawer for a first-aid-kit he always kept in his every dwelling place. 

His chair was cold but squishy when Sancaka threw himself to it, gingerly peeling off the gauntlet off his hands. They were now an ugly, sticky, sensitive pink, like they were just boiled over. Sancaka hissed when he pulled the gauntlet away, before throwing it to the table full-force; it knocked over his assortment of displays, causing a horse statue to tumble--and crash down the carpet with a loud _ thud. _

Sancaka snorted. So much for an A-grade weapon. 

He then went straight to work, tentatively dabbing disinfectant-coated cotton to his charred hand, biting his lower lip the whole time. By the time he was done cleaning, the wound was no longer an angry wet pink--it had slightly dried, and had even formed a thin, cracking surface of a scab. Sancaka pulled a fresh bandage out from the kit, before gingerly wrapping it around his arms--it could potentially raise questions from his subordinates if they see it in the morning, but he rarely came out from his office anyway, so it shouldn't be a big problem. Sancaka then tended his other wounds--a split lip, a scratched cheekbone, and a bruised jaw--before finally, finally sagging in defeat when he was done.

The anger for the escaping goddess incarnate was there; he could feel the crackling of self-hate for not finishing what he could have done, for not making the Wijayas pay the sins they did to _ Bapak _ . He should have not hesitated--not hold anything back--just like they held nothing back to frame him, kill him with a ghost knife out of his own friend's betrayal--only for demanding his _ rights. _

For the rich, the lives of the poor and the marginalized were a sad show on a soap opera; a forgotten statistic; an acceptable collateral damage for a cause. Riches like the Wijaya wouldn't bother to read the names of every factory worker they killed or silenced--much less remember them.

Sancaka could feel crackle of lightning coming inside his veins, manifesting at the tip of his fingers.

But beneath all those anger were also _ fear. _

He'd _ failed. _

And in Bapak's regime, failure wasn't an option.

Sancaka was _ glad _ he left his phone at his apartment, because he couldn't muster the courage to _ call _ Bapak and told him of his failure. He couldn't _ lose _ that hard-earned trust and adoration Bapak had given him, couldn't lose the _ love _he worked so hard to gain. 

And failure, for anak Bapak, could mean--

_ "Lihat, anak-anakku _ ." _ Said Bapak, solemnly, "itu akibatnya kalau kalian berani melawan orang tua." _

_ Before them, the news was reporting on a car-crash happening in tol Jagorawi. The car was totaled; ruined way beyond recognition as the flames went up, clouding the sky. Police reported the finding of one dead body, charred beyond recognition, strapped to what was once the front seat. _

_ Despite all that, Sancaka could still see, and recognize, Kanigara's opal ring, shining in contrast with his crisp fingers. _

_ "Berdo'a, buat saudara kalian," Bapak commanded, softly, "semoga api yang membakarnya bisa melatihnya untuk menghadapi neraka." _

It was _ years _ ago--Sancaka was only eighteen, then; he was well off his early thirties now--but the memory would still make him shudder, out of grief or fear, he didn't know. He touched his scarred ear, could feel the ghosting pain of the past, and remembered _ Awang, _telling him about the abuse he endured during his stay with the rich.

_ But Bapak wasn't abusive, he was strict. He merely enforced some rules, and gave consequences to those that disobeyed them. _

_ Bapak killed a man for insulting him--that was love. _

_ Right? _

It took Sancaka an embarrassingly long time before he realized that his other hand--the one that was healthy and not scarred, was still wearing the gauntlet. Narrowing his eyes, Sancaka wanted nothing more to similarly yeet the gauntlet away to where its pair was, but he couldn't; he had to examine what went _ wrong? _

His mind was already racing at lightspeed, trying to academically deduce its malfunction. He stood up, gingerly, and unlatched the gauntlet, before bringing it outside, to the tinker-table at the common room of his division.

The room was dark, and Sancaka didn't want to draw attention, so he merely used his phone's flashlight to brighten his eyesight, and set to work. He grabbed the soldering irons then unhooked the circuits, examining the design to determine its flaws.

Frowning when he saw nothing wrong, Sancaka shook his head--because there should be; there _ must _ be. How else could he lose against _ her? _ how else could the lightning struck him _ back? _

Facing the possibility of the lightning turning onto him, being a source of pain rather than power, was something Sancaka couldn't do right now.

Instead, he groaned in frustration, his voice echoing the walls, ricocheting through silence. He left the gauntlet there, and headed back to his office, intending to grab the blueprint of the device's design--

"_ Allahuakbar!" _

The bright light entered his eyes so suddenly, so wholly, that Sancaka yelped and stumbled onto his back and nearly fell, having the tinker-table as his only salvation.

"_ Audzubillahi min assyaithonirrojim, Allahulaa ilaha illa Allah--" _

"Pak," said Sancaka, shielding his face with his good arm, trying to fight the intruding light away from his eyes. "Pak, saya bukan setan, Pak!" 

"_ Huwal khayyul-- _Eh?" 

The flashlight bearer was a senior man, whose back was slightly bent forward and whose hair was more grey than black. He had the most comically fearful face; eyes wide open, mouth reciting quranic verses, and complexion pale as a sheet of paper. 

"Tolong jauhin senternya, Pak," said Sancaka, scrunching his eyes as he looked away, "silau banget."

"Aa teh manusia?"

Sancaka almost snorted at the spontaneous and knee-jerk question, because after all that happened in these past few days, this was the first time he could actually be fully distracted from his internal warring thoughts. "Yah, kalo saya bukan manusia, kaki saya nggak berpijak tanah, dong, Pak."

Almost immediately, the old man directed his flashlight to Sancaka's feat, as if trying to verify his words for it. Now Sancaka couldn't help it; he _ laughed. _

"_ Astaghfirullah _ , _ alhamdulillah," _Said the old man, when he found that Sancaka's feet indeed did stick to the ground. "Ya Allah a', saya kira teh situ malaikat maut, mau cabut nyawa saya." He said, sighing as he finally moved his flashlight away, directing it to the wall behind Sancaka instead. "Hampir saya mau negosiasi, nyabutnya 6 bulan lagi aja, habis cucu saya lahir, biar saya bisa lihat dia dulu." 

Sancaka blurted an impromptu chuckle at this man's bluntly innocent words. "Astaga Pak," he said, in-between laughter, "nggak kok, saya gak bakal nyabut nyawa siapa-siapa."

Well, not entirely _ true _, but he'd definitely wouldn't kill this old, slightly befuddled, but overall unintentionally funny man. 

"Lagian, si Aa' teh ya," said the old man, now narrowing his brows after fully reassured that his feared-off reaper wouldn't make an appearance tonight. "Ngapa sendiri di gelap-gelap atuh? Emang kantor teh belum bayar listriknya, aya kumaha?" 

The Sundanese accent that rolled off his tongue added to the comedic words the man unbeknowingly delivered, and Sancaka's laughter was now unbridled and carefree.

Huh. He hadn't done that in a while.

"Nggak, kok, Pak, Saya lagi--" he paused, thinking of an excuse. "Mikir aja." He gave the man a wry smile, trying to reassure him. "Lagi lembur--ngerjain prototip baru. Saya lebih bisa mikir kalau lampunya gak dinyalain."

The old man--now that Sancaka's eyes had adjusted to the dark-light ratio, he could see that he was wearing a security uniform--nodded. "Hoo," he said, "si Aa' teh, masi kerja?"

Sancaka nodded in return--a white lie wouldn't hurt anyone, right? "Iya, Pak."

"Jam segini, masih kerja?"

"Iya, Pak."

He didn't know what he expected, but certainly it wasn't the old man, suddenly frowning, then aligning the flashlight to under Sancaka's chin. "Anak jaman sekarang teh ya, sukanya kerja mulu, mana peduli sama kesehatan?" He said, shaking his head in disapproval, "liat tuh, tangannya si Aa', kurus banget kaya kangkung."

The comparison certainly threw Sancaka off, but even moreso the Security's next gesture. He inserted his hands to a plastic bag he was carrying--one Sancaka didn't realize was there until it was prompted to him--and raised something out of it. 

It was a _ tahu isi-- _ stuffed tofu. And it was seemingly _ warm, _with smoke still oozing faintly from its glistening, crispy coating.

"Anak saya teh, juga gitu, hobinya kerja wae, udah dirumah pun kerja, kerja, sampe saya kuatir dia suka lupa makan, hadeh," he said, as the hand offering the tahu isi inched closer to him.

Sancaka blinked. "Ini… Bapak nawarin saya?" He asked, carefully.

The security's eyes widened in confusion, "Lah, iya, lah. Emang si Aa' teh ngga suka, kitu, sama tahu isi? Saya ada lagi, sih, pariasinya; cakwe, bakwan..."

This gesture befuddled him--confused him. Notwithstanding the journalist he kept meeting, who asked his well-being after Dirga's death out of what seemingly was genuine concern, he'd never been on the receiving end of such a carelessly kind gesture, before. Not in a long time.

Not since Cantika.

"A'?"

"Eh," said Sancaka, snapping out of his reverie, "iya, Pak. Eh, maksud saya, enggak. Eh--" he inwardly cursed himself. Why did he keep tripping over his words? "Saya suka kok, Pak, sama tahu isi. Makasih, ya." 

He gingerly took the food from the old man's hand, noting how pleasantly warm it was, and how acutely aware he was of his empty stomach, all of the sudden.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled, _ loudly. _

"Tuh, kan?" Said the Security, triumphantly. "Kerja teh boleh, cuma makannya dijaga, atuh. Biar nggak kaya ranting pohon begini," he said, gesturing to his free hand--only to then realize that it was neatly bandaged, all wrapped in white. "Eh, lah, itu tangan si Aa' naha, atuh?"

Sancaka winced, instinctively hiding his wounded arm behind his body. "Ah, nggak apa, Pak." He said, smoothly, "salah kaprah waktu masak, kapan hari. Udah mau sembuh, kok." 

"Masya Allah," said the old man, his face contorting into a full-blown worry. "Kok bisa? Kesiram air kulub, kitu?"

Well, he already offered him an out, so Sancaka merely nodded. "Iya, Pak." He said, rather sheepishly. "Mau bikin mie, tapi airnya tumpah ngenain saya."

The man clicked his tongue in disapproval, looking at Sancaka with shrouded sympathy. Sancaka merely laughed, nervously, and popped the tahu isi to his mouth.

He didn't know if it was just the food, or the overall kindness at such an unexpected time, but the tahu isi was so _ good; _warm and crispy, making him wanting more. Before he knew it, he was blindly reaching the plastic bag for another, and the old man, instead of retreating, opened the bag wider for him to grab and choose.

"Tuh, A', laper kan?" Said he, rather cheekily. "Makanya makan teh, jangan ditunda-tunda--nanti maag, migraine, nyampur semua jadi hiji--kayak anak kedua saya, _ hadeeh _, si geulis satu itu--kan riweuh, euy." 

Sancaka, whose mouth was now full with Roti Bantal, could only nod. "M'kasih y' 'a." He said with a stuffed mouth, trying to convey genuine gratitude as much as he could through his muffled voice.

The old man laughed, and then he was raising a hand, patting Sancaka's shoulder softly. "Saya nyalain lampu dulu ya," he said, "biar mata si Aa' teh nggak rusak." 

Eyeing the old man in his each and every step, Sancaka felt befuddlement settling to him. This man was so kind, so _ good _ for no reason, and Sancaka felt both warmed and alerted by the presence of such unwarranted genuinity. 

He'd been taught that kindness was a trading currency--that kindness could only be accessed if a favor was done, or if a task was completed. But this man--this man threw all that notion, and was kind to him because he simply _ was. _

"Mikirnya keras banget, A'." The Security said once he got back, now to a brighter room. "Susah, kitu, frototif-nya?" 

Sancaka looked at him, considering. This man--he checked his badge, this time, reading the name 'Agung' at the top of his chest--was a stranger. He didn't know about the project, about the _ mission _ ; by virtue, Sancaka shouldn't share _ anything _to him--at him.

But he wanted nothing more but to tell him of his fear of _ failures, _ and the consequences that might entail. He wanted to talk about his _ anger _ about the lightnings that committed treachery against him. He wanted to talk about _ so many things _ , because this man was kind and Sancaka was _ desperate _ for a sliver of those kindness, just given to him a little bit _ more. _

"Iya, Pak," said Sancaka, parting his hair with his fingers, "Saya tuh masih ngitung tegangan yang bisa ditampung sama sirkuitnya, terus sama mau ganti konduktornya, soalnya tadi kayaknya inputnya terlalu tinggi…"

"Oh, ketinggian, ya?"

"Iya, paling nggak harus bisa nampung 1.3 miliar volt, sementara untuk bisa bikin adaptor yang _ compact _susah juga…"

"Oh, susah…"

Sancaka glanced at this man--who, despite being clueless as hell, decided to play along and listened to his rants anyway. And the fact that Pak Agung didn't do it in a condescending manner, the fact that he _ tried _ to listen and give room for him to speak, touched the hidden crevices of Sancaka's heart Bapak couldn't even _ find _.

Instead, he reminded Sancaka of--of _ Bapak _.

The Bapak who would ruffle his hair, who'd laugh at his _ receh _jokes, who'd kiss him before bed at night, who'd open his arms wide whenever Sancaka was too small and the lightnings were too big. The Bapak that he spent his childhood with, the Bapak who--

_ Pak, bangun Pak--jangan mati-- _

Looking at Pak Agung, Sancaka suddenly missed _ Bapak-- _and his boundless, unconditional affection to him.

"Wah, frototip-nya riweuh, ya a'. Saya aja yang denger pusing, kumaha si Aa', ieu?" Said Pak Agung, breaking Sancaka out from his reverie. His hand was on Sancaka's shoulder, reassuring him. "Tapi kalo Aa' lembur juga, sampe jam segini pula, malah kasian weh, nanti malah ngantuk, ketiduran di kantor. Mending sekarang Aa' teh pulang, ya, tidur yang nyenyak kitu, biar besok bisa lebih--ah, apa sih kata anak muda jaman sekarang, oh, iya--_ presh _kitu!"

Sancaka's tentative smile grew at Pak Agung's soft order to take care of himself. "Iya, Pak," he said, finally, after weighing in all his options. It _ was _late, and he didn't want to raise suspicion from his peers, and especially from the Wijaya heiress herself, when he didn't show up in the morning.

The Wijaya heiress. Huh. He wondered how she fared--where she'd go to seek refuge. 

"Udah, a', paling bener teh pulang," said Pak Agung, "prototif-nya ditinggal disini, besok dikerjain lagi."

Pak Agung smiled widely, showing his yellowing teeth, and Sancaka couldn't help but feel a little warmer inside.

When was the last time someone made him feel this… casually cherished?

"Makasih ya, Pak," Said Sancaka, genuinely. 

"Sama-sama, a'--eh, Astaghfirullah, ngomong panjang lebar sampe lupa kenalan. Nama Aa' teh, saha?"

"Sancaka, Pak," replied Sancaka, as he rose up, prompting the old man to rise up as well.

"Weh, sama kaya nama kereta, ya."

Laughing one last time, Sancaka finally, _ finally _decided to go home, his once heavy heart considerably more content than when he started the night. 

In the late morning, when Sancaka returned, he found a basic engineering book; old, worn, and seemingly bought out of secondhand bookshops, judging from the unpeeled tag. Before it was a note, saying;

_ Moga manfaat ya a, biar gak lembur lagi. Maaf saya lancang, tadi pagi masuk duluan sebelum Aa' dateng. _

_ -Agung (Sekuriti yang kaget tadi malem). _

Smiling, Sancaka carefully placed the book on top of his neat desk pile, and then inserted the little note on the inner frame of the picture he displayed--the one showing him, his mom, and his dad, together when he was far younger, far more innocent.

* * *

Nani was seventeen, and her mother was yapping at her about how ‘anak perawan’ shouldn’t sleep in on weekends. _ Pamali, _she warned. Nani didn't listen, burrowing deeper into the mountain of pillows she slept with. Suddenly, the room was filled with light, attacking the full darkness that she preferred to sleep in--a sign that her mother had drawn the curtains open in an attempt to get her out of bed. 

“Cah ayu masa molor pagi-pagi,” her mother was saying. She’d resorted to ripping the blanket off of her body. Nani heard a soft hiss as her air conditioner was turned off, then the heavy steps of her mother stomping over to the side of her bed. “Bangun!”

“Aduh,” Nani mumbled, annoyed and still half-asleep. “Masih ngantuk, nanti dulu--”

A pillow was smothering her face. “Bangun!” her mother yelled.

“Mom!” Nani yelled out, trying to push away the pillow attacking her face. “Iya, iya, ini Nani bangun!” 

Except--instead of stopping, her mother pressed down harder. Nani struggled, trashing on her bed to try to get the pillow--and her mother--off of her. “Mom!” she tried to yell, but her voice was muffled and unheard. She struggled, starting to feel suffocated under the forceful weight of the pillow. Panic dropped low in her stomach. With all her might, she screamed, “_ Dewi Sri!” _

… and woke up in a cold sweat.

She wiped off the sweat off her brow._ Could she please dream of something nice, once in a while? Unicorns or rainbows instead of the bleakest memories her brain could conjure? _

She didn't recognize her surroundings. The room was definitely not hers, but from the mint green wallpaper to the vanity table at the corner, she could tell that this room belonged to a woman. An interesting development; if the situation was any different, Nani would honestly laugh at the fact that after all these years of purposefully repressing her sexuality, she finally managed to wake up in another woman's bedroom. As it were, Nani was more alarmed than anything. Instinctively, her hand shot up to her ears--the _ sumping _ weren't on. She looked to the right, where the end table was, and was filled with relieved that the _ sumping _had been placed there, on top of scraps of white fabric that looked to be what was left of her white suit jacket. 

She’d somehow changed out of the Sri Asih regalia, in the midst of it all. She hastily looked down, uncomfortable at the thought of someone changing her clothes without her consent, woman or not, and was once again relieved to find that she had been wearing the same pants and white top she wore the night before, even if they were ripped in some places. 

The edges of the _ selendang _were slightly charred. The sight reminded her uncomfortably of the events of last night. She couldn't remember anything else after--well, after her face had been melted off. She knew she collapsed, somewhere, alleyways and neon signs flying in flashes in her memories, and she might be imagining a pair of hands on her body, non-threateningly, but not much else.

Speaking of--

She dreadfully stole a glance at the full-body mirror next to the bed. She'd expected something gnarly--Pengkor's face suddenly popped up in her mind, but she shook it off--but surprisingly, her face looked the way it always was. She gingerly touched the unmarred skin with her fingers. No scars, bumps, not a single sign that just approximately seven hours ago, a lightning had struck her in the face.

Huh. Guess Dewi Sri was still with her, then.

"Nani Wijaya?"

She whirled around, coming face to face with a woman in hospital scrubs. The woman had a concerned look on her face--she must be the person that Nani thought she must be imagining. 

Nani stared at her. "Kamu yang nolong aku?"

The woman nodded. "Cantika," she said, in lieu of introduction. Her grey eyes are watching her closely, almost inspecting. "Tapi kayaknya kamu nggak terlalu butuh banyak bantuan, setelah ini."

Right. She probably found her in that grotesque state, half of her face ruined beyond recognition--normal humans wouldn't heal this fast, if at all, from such serious burns. There'd be questions, and even if she--Cantika--had helped get her to safety, there was no guarantee that she would keep her mouth shut. Any information on her was a currency fit for transaction. Dewi Sri never expressed it explicitly, but Nani was certain the part where she had to keep her identity a secret went without saying.

"Jangan bilang siapa-siapa," Nani said about the miraculous state of her face. "Aku--kemarin kecelakaan."

Cantika sat on the edge of the bed. "Ya--beritanya sudah ada di mana-mana," she said. "Tadi malam aku nggak ngenalin wajah kamu."

Nani didn't want to think about it. "Makasih, udah nolongin aku," she smiled tightly.

Cantika didn't respond right away, still looking at Nani with that concern that made something in Nani's heart feel strange. "Doctor-patient confidentiality," she murmured as a disclaimer, "Apa yang terjadi? Polisi bilang itu kecelakaan tunggal." God, the police were already on it? How big was the coverage on her story? She approached her next words more attentively, “Were you… drunk?”

Nani winced. Cantika no doubt had a perception of who Nani was, before she met Nani. It wasn't her fault--the media was mostly to blame, and while Nani had worked her ass off trying to erase the blight in her late teens, the image certainly had stayed. As much as Nani protected her image as the poised Wijaya heiress, the 19-year-old Nani who partied and drank in excess never really went away, even if she barely touched alcohol these days.

"Nggak, sumpah--" Nani shook her head. "Kemarin cuma sleep-deprived aja."

"Oh," Cantika nodded slowly, "Tapi kamu nggak diapa-apain, kan?" She followed up, tone worried. 

"Diapain gimana?" Nani retorted, confusion coloring her tone, as well as creeping anxiety that she'd somehow figured out her fight last night. Wait, did _ she-- _?

"Maksudku," Cantika said, running fingers down her silky hair, "antara situs kecelakaanmu sama tempat aku nemuin kamu itu lumayan jauh, dan kamu luka parah, aku--" she hesitated, "aku cuma pingin mastiin kalo gak--gak ada yang _ macem-macem." _

Her eyes flashed, and Nani suddenly understood the sentiment. This woman--this beautiful, kind, stranger--was looking out for her; for possible assault, for possible harassment; for all the horrible things the world could do to a disadvantaged, vulnerable woman.

Nani understood logically that the query was most probably coming from a women-to-women solidarity, but still, she couldn't help but to feel a little warm inside. "Nggak kok." She answered, trying to reassure her.

Cantika seemed unconvinced, but she let it go. "Breakfast?" she offered, standing up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs. "I imagine you need to make a lot of calls after this. Lebih baik kalo nggak dilakukan dengan perut kosong." As if sensing Nani's hesitance, she added jokingly, "Nggak ada racunnya, kok."

Nani found herself grinning. "That's exactly what someone who would poison me would say."

Cantika laughed, a beautiful sound that reminded Nani of church bells. "Aku yang makan duluan, deh."

As Nani followed her to the kitchen, she passed the end table where her _ sumping _ was, and after a minute of debating, decided to put them on. Cantika seemed harmless, but she couldn't be too trusting. One moment of vulnerability was one too much; she only hoped that her _ sumping _worked, this time. She glanced out of the window--at most, they were at the third level. Safe enough to jump if she needed an escape.

The smell of eggs quickly distracted her from any plans of escape. She was _ starving. _She found Cantika in the kitchen, sliding the eggs from a frying pan onto twin dish plates filled with fried rice. They looked so appetizing, Nani didn't even have half the mind to be shameful when her stomach started to grumble.

"Please tell me it's not poisoned," Nani said, only half-joking, because she was a Wijaya--and Wijayas can never be _ too _sure.

Cantika made a show of spooning rice into her mouth obnoxiously. “See?” she said. “No frothing at the mouth, no heart attack--a breakfast completely fit for a queen.”

Nani chuckled.

As they enjoyed their breakfast, Nani couldn't help but observe her surroundings. The kitchen didn't have any clear doorway or separation from the living room, and Nani could see that in place of sofas, Cantika had bean bags instead. The decor was very simple, a clock shaped like the sun hanging on the wall and a couple of paintings. Books were scattered on the carpet, being used as a holder for a ceramic mug containing stationery (and one single pink-blue-purple flag that Nani was sure to overanalyze later), stacked haphazardly on the bookshelf according to no order. 

"Kamu suka baca, ya?" Nani asked.

Cantika looked confused for a second. "Oh! Berantakan, ya?" she tucked her hair behind her ear sheepishly. "Nggak, itu adek aku. Dia suka nginep ke sini sambil bawa buku, tapi nggak pernah dibawa pulang."

"Oh," Nani said. She wondered if that could be her and Wulan, if things didn't go south. If she'd stood up for her, if she'd been a little braver. Perhaps Wulan's things would be scattered around her apartment too, papers and notes on the story she was chasing. 

Had she heard about Nani's car accident? Would she be sympathetic or rejoice at the news of her supposed death?

Cantika snapped her fingers in front of her. "Melamun," she said.

Nani shook her head, smiled thinly. "Nggak apa-apa.” she automatically answered.

Cantika smiled, wryly. "Aku nggak nanyain apa-apa, lho, padahal," she teased, and Nani's smile widened as she looked down to her plate, feeling warmth spreading her cheeks. "Makan, gih, sebelum nasi gorengnya dingin--then shower," she told her, softly. "Atau kamu penganut ajaran nggak mandi pagi, kaya mahasiswa yang sering telat bangun?"

"Hm?" Nani narrowed her eyes, confused at the sudden draw of conclusion. Cantika then reached out, and for a split second Nani thought that she was gonna tilt her chin or something, like a gesture straight out of an underground lesbian movie she used to sneakily watch back when she was a teenager--

But then Cantika tapped the golden ornament adorning her ears, lightly. "These things," she said, "udah dandan, gitu."

Oh. _ Oh. _

Ignoring her _ definitely _ beet-red face, Nani coughed to clear her throat. "Nggak, ini mah, um," she stuttered--think, Nani, _ think-- _ "family heirloom; harus selalu dipakai kemana-mana. Buat good luck, katanya." 

Cantika raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Nani deliberately took another spoonful of rice--both because the food was _ good, _and to escape the necessity of immediately answering any possible questions that might come up. 

Instead, Cantika threw a nonchalant remark, almost jokingly. "And I guess those fancy earrings provided the good-luck needed to heal your scars overnight?" she said, voice laced with harmless sarcasm.

Still, Cantika's off-handed comment made part of Nani's stomach dropped to a pit. Because _ of course _ she was curious--no normal human could heal _ that _quickly.

"Eh…" Nani trailed off, yelling at herself to _ mikir, mikir, mikir! _"Keluarga aku… katanya ada jin penjaganya, gitu, dari leluhur." She said, lamely, "biasanya makanya, luka separah apapun cepet sembuhnya."

Did it sound stupid? _ God, _ it sounded so stupid--she _ felt _stupid saying it.

But Cantika merely shook her head, sighing. "Relax, I believe you,” she said, kindly, "I learned early on untuk nggak mendiskredit apapun, meskipun mereka nggak masuk logika medis." She continued, idly playing with the rice on her plate. "Penting sih, punya mindset kaya gitu--apalagi di Indonesia; kadang pasien yang masuk tuh, kenapa-napa buka karena sakit, tapi kena santet. Jadi harus siap berbagai possibility."

Nani blinked. Admitted to hospital because of a curse? Now that was something she'd never heard before. "Pernah nanganin orang yang kena santet?" 

Cantika snorted, her face wincing. "Pernah. Itu perut isinya paku semua, ya ampun." She shivered, and Nani scrunched her face as well just imagining it. "Kalo hidup di negara _ klenik, _mah, kasus kaya gitu pasti ada,” she told her, before spooning the rice into her mouth.

They bantered on idle conversation, getting settled, and Nani thought she could stay here for a while, just talking with this woman while eating fried rice. And then her eyes had the audacity to catch the time shown at the wall-clock.

09.20.

_ Shit. _She forgot that she had so many things to clarify--so many people to call. 

“Aku boleh pinjam hapemu? Aku harus ngasih tau publicist-ku kalo aku aman-aman aja."

Cantika nodded, handing Nani her Samsung without question. It was already unlocked--her wallpaper was a picture of two kids, maybe age 9 to 10, holding hands in a field of roses, the girl's smile so big and infectious, while the boy's staring straight at the camera, serious and austere.

"Wallpaper-nya aku sama adekku," Cantika explained with a fond smile.

Nani smiled back. "Kalian lucu banget."

All the photos of her and Wulan were confiscated by her mother the day Wulan ran away. If Nani wanted a childhood picture, all she could do was scour the internet for low-quality pap pics. 

She punched in the extension for her publicist, Adena. She answered on the third ring and started yelling out how worried sick and scared she was for her safety as soon as Nani opened her mouth. 

"Ya Allah, ini tuh paniknya lebih dari waktu lu masuk rumah sakit gara-gara mabok, tau gak," Adena wailed. Nani winced again--nobody would forget that, wouldn't they? "Lu di mana sekarang?"

"Di… um," Nani eyed Cantika, who had been watching her phone call in amusement, and the other woman mouthed, _ Cinere. _"Cinere. Kemarin ada yang bantuin aku waktu abis kecelakaan."

"Ya ampun, udah berapa kalo gue ingetin ya, jangan percaya sama orang asing, dong!" Adena berated. "Kalo orangnya minta macem-macem gimana?"

"Nggak, baik kok orangnya," Nani said--and realized that she meant it. Her _ sumping _ seemed to agree, anyway. "Dari tadi nggak minta apa-apa."

Cantika, seeming to understand that the conversation was about her, watched her with wide eyes.

"Ya belum aja itu!" Adena said. "Untung lu selamat, ya Allah. Udeh, lu cepet balik sekarang. _ Shareloc _ ke WA gue, entar gue kirimin Sukidi buat jemput lu."

"Iya, Mbak."

"Nyokap lu juga dikabarin. Belum tidur semaleman dia, nungguin kabar polisi."

Nani was starting to sound like a broken record. “Iya, Mbak.”

“Lu pulang dulu, istirahat. Nanti gue pastiin gak ada pap yang nungguin di apartemen lu,” Adena said. “Gue bikin statement bentar lagi. Cek e-mail lo, ya, kalo udah sampe rumah."

"Siap, Mbak," Nani said for the sake for variety. 

On the other end, Adena could be heard sighing again, heavier than last time. "Hati-hati, Nan. Lu tau kita semua peduli dan sayang sama lu. Jangan sampe lu mendem masalah lagi," then, in a softer voice, "kayak kemaren."

"Gue cuma sleep-deprived aja," Nani lied How was she supposed to tell the truth? _ I was completely sober and well-rested, but this crazy lightning guy attacked me and melted my face off. This Sri Asih thing was supposed to help me, but connection has been unstable--worry not, though! Dewi Sri still bothered to fix my face. _

"Ya udah, habis ini istirahat," Adena said. "Gue ngurus pers dulu."

She hung up without a goodbye. Typical Adena. 

After sharing her location to Adena's WhatsApp, she returned the phone back to its rightful owner. Cantika's hand, when Nani's brushed hers, felt sure and steady, though not absent from scars. "Thanks," Nani muttered.

"No problem," Cantika replied. Her phone chimed, and she held it to Nani's face, showing her Adena informing Nani that the driver will arrive in about 20 minutes. "You have to get going soon, huh?"

"Yeah," Nani nodded. 

Cantika started getting up, gathering empty dish plates and glasses, but Nani stopped her. "Let me do the dishes, it's the least I can do." 

Cantika let her stack the plates on top of one another, and then the glasses, transferring them into the sink one-handed. Nani switched the knob on, rinsing the oil still clinging to the dishware, then grabbing a wet sponge to dip them in soap water to clean off the remaining oil. Cantika stepped into her side, taking the clean dishes and depositing them into the drying rack. When Nani started to protest, Cantika simply smiled and said, "The more the merrier."

Later, as the car sent by Adena pulled up at Cantika's house, Cantika slipped a piece of paper into Nani's hand. "Nomerku," she explained. "Kalo ada apa-apa, jangan ragu-ragu buat ngehubungin aku ya." 

Nani was fully aware that the gesture was nothing but a friendly one, made in good faith, but Nani couldn't help but think back on the blue-purple-pink flag sitting snugly among the pens and pencils. God, this was what years of dry spell did on her, romanticizing the most normal thing a pretty girl did out of the goodness of her heart. 

"Kamu juga," Nani said, pushing those distracting thoughts as far as she could. "Kalo butuh apa-apa, kamu juga jangan ragu-ragu."

On the way back, Nani held on to the scrap of paper tightly as Pak Sukidi drove through the city. She couldn't attribute it to her _ sumping _, those things were still stubbornly silent, but she had a nagging hunch, at the back of her mind, that she was going to need it. 

A lot.

* * *

Wulan's whole afternoon was spent on a bus ride to Mr. Subandi's office, fidgeting and trying to mitigate her nerves. Truthfully, Wulan had wanted to throw up since this morning. Not because of the prospect of meeting him--she was _ giddy _ when his secretary called and asked her to move the interview a day earlier. She couldn't wait to talk to him. The enigmatic, controversial businessman with endless number of orphans under his care--it was every journalist’s dream to do a story on him.

No, it was because--because since this morning, all the news outlets, TV programmes, and social media could focus on were the alleged death of Nani Wijaya. 

Her car was found turned over, totaled beyond recognition due to all the rough-housing and the flames charring its irons. Police found no corpses inside the car, but there was a large possibility that the flames reduced her body into ashes. 

Wulan told herself she didn't care--_ they _ were a long time ago, before Nani became _ Nani _ and Wulan became _ Wulan. _ Their friendship, sisterhood, whatever it was, crashed and burned years back, the way Nani's car was engulfed in flames last night. She wasn't supposed to _ care _ at all about any members of theijaya family.

And yet her heart was beating so quickly, so _ loudly, _ as her throat constricted with the unexpected wave of _ grief. _

Wulan shook her head and closed her eyes when she felt tears pricking her eyelids today. There had been _ way _ too many _ deaths-- _more than she could endure, most definitely. She exhaled, shuddering; trying to flex and clench her fingers together, over and over again, trying to get over her bearings. 

_ Wulan would lie to herself later, but in that bus ride, the only thing she did was praying for Nani's safety--however miraculous, however impossible. _

_ Because beneath all that hatred, she _ ** _missed _ ** _ her childhood best friend. _

"Halte Cempaka Putih,” said a mechanical voice, snapping Wulan out of her reverie. That was her stop--so she wiped the excess droplets of sweat from her face and took a deep breath, composing herself before leaving the bus. 

_ She remembered Nani, on their way back from the family trip to Mojokerto, telling her that she'd been bestowed superpowers by an ancient goddess. _

_ Wulan, in that exact moment, wanted nothing more than for that childhood fantasy of Nani's to come true--if it meant that it could _ ** _save _ ** _ her. _

The place of meeting was quite a modest building--not at all looking like it was owned by a millionaire. But Mr. Subandi's businesses spread and grew like weed, domineering many sectors in Indonesian commodity, and Wulan understood very well to never judge a book by its cover.

When she arrived, the receptionist told her to take a seat while she confirmed her appointment. Wulan nodded, scrolling her Twitter as she waited. Her fingers hovered for several seconds above the trending topic section, where Nani's name took number 1. 

On one hand, she was devastatingly curious--on the other hand, she didn't want to open it and be devastated, right in the middle of a job. Battling herself for what seemed like forever, Wulan finally steeled her heart and clicked.

When she saw the top tweet, she sagged in relief, almost crying as she did so. Because there _ Nani _was, videotaped as she was making a press conference, confirming her survival. Wulan sighed and bit her lower lip, feeling gratitude oozing out of her body. 

Her chest felt ten times lighter than it had been mere minutes ago.

"Bu Sedhah Esti Wulan?" 

Wulan looked up, abruptly, from her phone, to see a man towering before her, giving a plastic smile. "Saya Ghani, sekretaris Pak Haedar,” he said, pleasantly. "Mari, saya antar ke ruangannya."

He looked… nice enough, as Wulan wordlessly stood up. The entire elevator ride was silent, save for idle questions of how she got here and small talk about the weather. 

When they arrived at the third floor, Ghani led her to a closed door at the end of the hallway, separated from the other clusters of offices. He knocked, three times, before a hoarse voice replied with, "Masuk," and then opened the door.

The office was cold, but the man sitting behind the mahogany desk exuded a kind of warmth that Wulan couldn’t explain. His hands were set on the table, his smile ready like he had been waiting for Wulan to come. He wasn’t alone--behind him, a bald man dressed like a monk stood like a guard, hands in front of his stomach, dead silent. The same man Wulan saw accompanying Mr. Subandi at the party, with eyes hidden beneath circular sunglasses. Wulan recognized the man from the preliminary research she’d done on the businessman; if her memory served her right, his name was Kamal Atmaja, one of Mr. Subandi’s many foster children and shadow. 

Wulan took her seat as Mr. Subandi gave her a wide smile; noting that despite the scarred half of his face, he didn't seem to look menacing. In fact--he looked _ welcoming. _

"Saya minta maaf ya Bu, kemarin ngabarinnya mendadak,” said the man, almost sheepishly, "ternyata besok saya ada pertemuan dengan investor anak perusahaan, dan tidak bisa diundur."

Wulan tucked a wayward strand of hair behind the back of her ears, smiling nervously. "Ah, nggak apa, Pak Subandi, “ she said, reassuring him. "Saya malah terimakasih--besok ternyata saya ditugaskan buat ngeliput acara penting, sempet bingung gimana mau jadwalin ulang."

The important event in question was Dirga's commemorative funeral by the DPR; his autopsy was declared complete at breakneck speed, proclaiming that his death was, indeed, suicide. Something about it ticked the alarm in Wulan's head, but she didn't have any lead besides her hunch. 

Mr. Subandi shook his head. "Panggil saja saya Pengkor," he told her with a rather authoritative tone.

Wulan narrowed her eyes, doubtful. "Baik, Pak… Pak Pengkor," she said, hesitant, because it _ seemed _like a slur--the nickname. Like a call crafted specifically to mock his dysmorphia. 

Mr. Subandi--_ Pengkor-- _chuckled. "Ndak usah Pak; Pengkor saja," he said, correcting her. "Saya tau, kok, itu ejekan. Makanya justru saya mengambil alih nama itu--biar kuasa akan artinya ada di saya, bukan di mereka."

Huh. So he _was _reclaiming the narrative of his mockery, Wulan thought as she nodded. That was a great piece of information regarding his personality. "Baik… Pak, eh, Pengkor,” she said awkwardly, opening her notebook and setting her recorder on the table. "Wawancara ini akan saya rekam, untuk nanti kalau-kalau ada yang kelupaan atau kelewat oleh saya," she asked carefully, "apakah Bapak berkenan?"

Pengkor nodded, extending his good arm to give her the go ahead. Wulan smiled at him, gratefully. "Terima kasih, Pak," she told him.

In return, he waved a hand nonchalantly. "Saya malah yang terima kasih," he threw her words back at her, his sentences drawled and dragged into a slightly lisp-y speech, "sejujurnya saya kaget lho, waktu ibu nyamperin saya di Wijaya Expo--saya ndak menyangka media sebesar The Djakarta Times mau menjadikan saya yang begini-begini saja untuk subyek segmen profilnya." 

Wulan shook her head. "Begini-begini saja-nya Bapak itu sangat inspiratif lho, untuk banyak orang," she replied, "saya pribadi, sebagai ketua dari proyek ini, jujur paling semangat mewawancarai Bapak," she said, trying to convey as much honesty as she could muster, because it was _ true. _

She had often admired Mr. Subandi's--Pengkor; she kept forgetting that--contribution to the poor and the marginalized, and especially towards his charity work for the orphaned, abused, and neglected children he collected over the years. It was public knowledge that Pengkor even went as far as housing these children, putting there to top schools, and, above all, giving them _ affection _as if he was their real parent.

Wulan used to dream, when she was a kid, that when they would meet at her adoptive family's corporate parties, he'd notice her sufferings, somehow, and picked her up from the Wijayas, taking her under his wing the way he took in his many children. 

Pengkor smiled at her in pleasant surprise, and Wulan gave him a kind smile in return. "Terima kasih," he said, perhaps for the umpteenth time this day. 

"Sama-sama, Pak,” she said, nodding. "Baik, kita mulai saja ya, wawancaranya. Sebelumnya, bisa nggak Bapak menceritakan bagaimana perjalanan hidup Bapak? Mulai dari kecil hingga sesukses sekarang?"

Pengkor’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Saya sebenarnya tidak terlalu suka menceritakan tentang masa kecil saya,” he began, resting one elbow on the desk. “Saya lebih suka memikirkan masa depan, ndak baik kalo kita terus-terusan terjebak di masa lalu.” His hundred-mile stare focused on nothing in particular, like he was seeing through the paintings and the taxidermies hanging on his wall, and at something Wulan couldn’t grasp. Then, in a flash, he snapped his attention back to Wulan. His smile, having faded as he got lost in his paintings, was back again, a million watts. “Tapi sudahlah, kalau diminta. Kita mulai dari Ayah saya…”

The story Pengkor delved into was nothing short of _ tragic; _ from how his father was being falsely accused of murder, to him being toasted alive, then abused in a rogue orphanage--Wulan's heart clenched at his words. As a journalist, she was aware of Pengkor’s reputation--he was a mafia, a corrupt businessman behind every half-assed constitution the Parliament had ever passed, some even called him Dajjal, the Islamic harbinger of the end of the world, for the way he could never fully open his burned eyelids. But sitting in front of the man as he recalled painful memories of his childhood with a genuine smile, like he didn’t want to spook Wulan or incite her pity, all Wulan could feel was _ empathy. _ She could only focus on his voice, slightly murky and throaty, most definitely a permanent side-effect of the fire and the abuse he'd sustained. 

"...lalu kemudian, saya akhirnya bisa berdiri sendiri," he said, "paman saya akhirnya terpaksa memberikan harta warisan Bapak saya kembali, dan saya buat itu untuk merintis berbagai usaha," he waved a hand to the room, "hingga bisa seperti ini."

Wulan was so carried away she'd almost forgotten to reply. She cleared her throat when she realized her silence, red faintly coloring her cheeks, "Kisah hidup Bapak sangat…" she trailed off trying to get the right word.

"Tragis?" The man offered, surprising Wulan. He laughed at Wulan's widening eyes, hoarse and jagged. "Nggak apa, saya nggak tersinggung, kok. Justru saya makin bisa mensyukuri apa yang saya miliki sekarang,” he said humbly.

Wulan nodded, understanding the sentiment. "Lalu, mengenai anak-anak angkat Bapak…" she continued, "semenjak kapan Bapak tertarik until mulai mempedulikan anak yatim, Pak?"

Pengkor sighed, his smile growing somber. "Setelah panti asuhan pertama saya terbakar habis, kebanyakan saudara saya di sana tidak punya tempat tinggal. Saya tidak tega meninggalkan mereka,” he said, looking at his desk. "Kemudian, saya sadar bahwa panti asuhan yang seperti itu bukan hanya saya saja, dan masih banyak anak-anak lain yang pasti hidupnya sama menderitanya, atau bahkan lebih, daripada saya." He shook his head. "Jadi saya mulai… ah, _ mencari, _ anak-anak yatim." His eyes trailed off, then, to the framed picture on his desk; where he was pictured standing upfront right in the middle, with hordes of people surrounding both his sides. He seemed young in it, and the picture was old, yellowing and worn on its sides. "Mereka sekarang sudah besar, sudah _ mencar _ semua--tapi kalau saya telepon mereka, mereka _ pasti _ pulang."

Wulan nodded, eyes scanning the picture. She could recognize some people, like the monk right behind Pengkor, and the secretary who picked her up earlier. She could also note several famous figures; Pengkor’s gaggle or orphans worked in various industries, from arts to engineering, science to politics. A sculptor, a violinist, an international model, a famous chef, and--

_ Oh_.

Wulan didn't expect to see _ him _there.

"Yang paling pojok tuh, Desti, paling kecil,” Pengkor was almost boasting, finger grazing at the girl at the corner of the picture, one of the few people Wulan didn't recognize. "Sekarang ambil S2, jurusan teknik--duh, teknik apa, Mal, adikmu itu? Nuclear Fashion?" He turned to the man behind him, who was unnaturally stoic since Wulan got there. Frankly, his adamant silence was starting to creep her off a bit.

"Nuclear Fusion, Pak.” answered the man, with a locally accented English. His voice is void with emotions, unsettling Wulan's conscience.

"Ya, itu," Pengkor shook his head, "Jurusannya namanya _ susah, _ sering banget saya salah ucap--maklum, lidah lokal." he said, rather sheepishly. "Untung si Kamal ini kakak yang baik, kalau soal adik-adiknya, dia tau _ semua." _

Wulan chuckled politely, nodding. "Ini semua dibiayai dan tinggal sama Bapak dari kecil?" She asked, intently looking at the pictures.

Pengkor pressed his lips together, humming. "Ada beberapa yang dari kecil, iya--si Mutiara ini, dulu dibuang sama keluarganya, jadi sudah ikut saya dari masih balita. Adi juga. Mutiara ini model, Mbak. Kemarin sampai di New York Fashion Week, satu runway sama model-model Victoria’s Secret.”

Wulan hadn’t expected _ Victoria’s Secret _to come out of Pengkor’s mouth this morning; she couldn’t help but giggle. “Bapak kok tau, Victoria’s Secret?”

“Lho, iya, anak sendiri, harus saya pantau semua capaiannya,” Pengkor said, in that half-laughing manner that all fathers had been known to do. He moved on to the man next to Mutiara, presumably Adi. “Kalo ini, dia musisi hebat. Kalau kau mendengarkan musiknya, kamu pasti akan tahu isi hatinya.”

Wulan would have to look them up. She had to admit that the world of classical music and modelling weren’t on her mind; but interviewing Pengkor, it was clear that Pengkor paid attention to all the things that his children liked. Wulan was about to dig more, but Pengkor didn’t need to be persuaded; he happily continued.

He pointed two people, one girl and one boy, "kalau ini, Tika--dari umur 10 kalau nggak salah. Ghani juga, dari umur 8-an." 

Curious, Wulan then pointed at _ his _picture, turning to Pengkor. "Kalo yang ini, Pak?" 

Pengkor's face lit up, if possible, and he smiled rather affectionately. "Ah, dia itu dari SD--ketemu di jalan, waktu dia kabur dari pengamen." He shook his head. "Nempel terus sama saya, anaknya; _ ngalem. _Pinter banget,” he said, his raspy voice somehow softer.

Nodding, Wulan could feel her chest filled with _ warmth _ at Pengkor's description. She continued to randomly point one of the boys in the picture--the one that looked quite morose and serious. She didn't recognize this one. "yang ini, bagaimana, Pak?" 

The kindness in Pengkor's face dissipated, replaced with something cold, something that _ surprised _Wulan. "Dia… dulu ikut saya dari SMP." He said, darkly. "Tapi lalu… menghilang. Tidak tahu terima kasih.”

It was the first time Pengkor's words ticked Wulan's alarm--unsettling her to the pits of her stomach. Perhaps this was it--what made him be labeled as a mafia. That tone of voice was nothing short of resentful. Wulan scooted to the edge of her seat. “Jadi, apa Bapak beranggapan kalau semua anak Bapak harus berterima kasih dengan Bapak?”

A rather bold question, she knew--but Pengkor looked none too surprised. In fact, he looked rather amused. “Apa yang diinginkan seorang Bapak selain anak yang berbakti pada orang tua?” 

The rhetoric had Wulan wondering. “Apakah kasih sayang kepada anak itu menurut Anda ada syaratnya?”

Pengkor didn’t answer right away. Behind him, Kamal was still silent, still as a statue, unbothered by the rising tension in the room. “Menjadi Bapak itu pekerjaan yang mulia,” Pengkor said. “Apalagi, Bapak yang memilih anaknya. Orang-orang selalu bilang, blood is thicker than water. Tapi kalimat itu salah. Tau yang benar bagaimana, Bu Wulan?”

Wulan shook her head. 

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Pengkor finished for her. “Keluarga yang dipilih itu selalu di atas keluarga kandung yang meninggalkan kita. Aku memiliih dia karena sayang. Saya sekolahkan, saya bebaskan dia jadi apa pun yang dia mau. Tidak mengharapkan apa pun, kecuali kebaktian. Itu lah yang tidak dia berikan kepada saya. Jika dia memilih membangkang, saya tidak menolak.”

Pengkor had said _ menghilang_. Such a curious word, so many implications behind one word. “Dia kabur dari rumah, Pak?”

Pengkor held up the photo frame, his voice dull when he said, “Katakan saja begitu.”

Wulan wanted to ask more, but then she blinked, and he returned to a regular, gushing father, praising his other children and their achievements, pointing their pictures one by one. Pengkor’s children were spread from Sabang to Merauke; the gaggle of orphans surrounding him in that picture weren’t even half of them. Pengkor offered to show her the rest, but Wulan declined, wanting to move on to other questions. 

Pengkor nodded, agreeing and understanding her urgency, which she was extremely grateful for. He then turned to the display picture at his desk, staring at them, fondly, "Mereka selalu tahu, tugas mereka apa," he said, with a rather triumphant tone. "Dan mereka selalu laksanakan itu dengan baik."

Wulan nodded, warily, but she carried on the interview. The entire conversation was pleasant enough, she supposed, questions on his various businesses across the country, his plans on expansion--this story, after all, was about the life and times of one Haedar Subandi, and his business was as a big part of him as his children were-and by the end of the session she had most of the things she needed--he even gave her several personal, never-before-seen pictures for publication purposes.

"Saya kira sudah cukup ya Pak," she said, politely, "cuma mungkin, untuk sentimen yang lebih, ah, _ personal," _she hesitated, "boleh tidak saya, um, minta beberapa kontak anak Bapak serta benefaktor dari yayasan Bapak…?" 

Unexpectedly, Pengkor laughed, his voice echoing through the high ceiling. "Ya ampun, Bu, saya kira mau minta apa," he said, voice laced with mirth. "Iya, boleh sekali malah. Coba, bentar--saya cek dulu nomer anak-anak saya…" he scrolled down his phone with his scarred hand, while his good one picked a pen, writing down the numbers. "Anak saya banyak ini, yang mana ya yang mau dihubungi...” he hummed to himself, scrolling through what Wulan presumed were his many children’s contacts, “Ini--anak-anaknya cukup terkenal--mungkin ibu pernah lihat." He said, giving her the scrap of paper, "anti bilang aja, dapatnya dari saya. Biar mereka nggak banyak protes." He laughed at his own words.

Wulan got herself four new numbers to interview, and an email she could contact to have a pleasant corporate response about their experience working with Pengkor. 

As she ended the interview and walked out, she stared intently at these numbers, trying to prioritize which one should she talk with first.

Her eyes kept on gliding to one of the names--the one she kept seeing these past few days.

Shrugging to herself, she sighed, deciding. 

_ Might as well. _


	4. sekawan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Papa ngomong sama orang botak juga sebelum ilang, Ma,” Sadhah was no longer shouting. Instead, he sounded like he was pleading, and it shredded Wulan’s heart mercilessly. “Sebelum papa pergi—terus jatuh.” 
> 
> “Ngomong apa kamu, Sadhah?”
> 
> “Waktu kemaren, Ma,” Sadhah said, tearing up, “Papa pergi sama om-om botak juga, yang pake baju oren itu—terus habis itu jatuh. Aku nggak mau deket-deket, nanti kayak Papa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kalo updatenya lama salahin tugas kuliah yang mengcockblock penulisan fanfic

There was something about missing death by a hair’s width and going back to work the next morning, business as usual as if news of her death didn’t shock the nation just a shy eight hours before. Some would say Nani deserved a break, after such a terrifying near-death experience, but Nani is a Wijaya. 

(_ Her first ballet recital, at ten years old. She’d slipped and hurt her ankle. Her mother would listen to her pleas _ — _ she put on the shoes on her tiny feet and told her, “You do not stop, if you can still stand. A Wijaya does not give up.” _

_ Seventeenth birthday party. Her mother had invited her socialite friends to come, bringing along their teenage sons. Nani was sick to her stomach, so dizzy that greens looked blue. Her mother yanked her head out of the toilet bowl she was hurling into and said, “Suck it up. These people come all the way here to see you. A Wijaya does not disappoint!” _)

As her mother always said, the Wijayas knew nothing but work, and they day that a Wijaya stopped working was when they were dead. 

Nani was objectively not. So this morning, Nani woke up, took a shower, put on her signature white suit, and went to work, against Adena’s protests. After a while, it just became a habit. Nani couldn’t quite explain it. Gossip sites already had netizens worried about her apparent workaholicism. 

No worries—the only truth that the public needed to know was that Nani Wijaya was sleep deprived the night before, and successfully escaped before her car caught on fire, aided by a mysterious savior who the press was going crazy about. Nani couldn’t care less; as long they had no idea about the truth_ — _ that she was a goddess incarnate who was chased down by a mysterious lightning man melting the shit out of her face, only then to be saved by an alluring doctor named very aptly for the way that she looked _ — _it was fair game.

That Nani was nervously typing and deleting a text to the very same person was nobody’s business but hers. 

_ Come on, Nani _ , she chided herself. _ The future of the world is very bleak, ice is melting at a rate faster than historically possible, there are people sitting on the Parliament who never showed up to meetings—and you’re afraid to send a text? _

There were two main reasons why Nani didn’t flirt with women. One was—well, the obvious. This country would sooner burn than welcome the likes of her. Her reputation, her family’s business, everything that the seven generations of Wijayas had worked for would perish in the blink of an eye if it ever got out that Nani was—God forbid—a lesbian. The other reason was that women are nice to other women for _ no goddamn reason _ . Nani could hit it off with any girl on the basis of experience of being female, cis or trans, and it could still mean _ nothing _. A girl could hold her hand and tell her she was beautiful, and she still could be straighter than a ruler. Simply put, Nani was trying to save herself from heartbreak. 

Except—Cantika had what she recognized to be the bisexual pride flag.

Could be an ally, sure. _ But there’s only one way to find out, right _?

Nani re-typed the message, deleted it, and omitted the emojis before finally deciding that she had enough. _ Even if Cantika wasn’t into women, she’d still be a new friend. _Nani needed one, especially if Wulan decided she never wanted to see Nani ever again. 

Cantika  
  
**Today** 8:47 AM  
Hi, this is the girl whose life you saved last night. If you don’t think you’ve ever saved a girl’s life, please ignore this message. 

Nani blew out a nervous breath. If she’d texted the wrong person, she’d have to change her number (again, after the sixth time _ lambe turah _leaked it on Instagram) and also stop daydreaming about being saved by a lady knight in scrubs for armor. She put her phone screen-down, dreading the response.

And then, as Pak Sukidi pulled up to the Wijaya Industries gate, her phone gave a weak vibrate. Nani was not ashamed to admit how fast she opened the messaging app. 

**Today** 8:53 AM  
You definitely didn’t need much help from me last night. 

And then, a selfie. Nani’s breath caught at the sight of Cantika out of her scrubs. She seemed to be walking somewhere, a white t-shirt on, and hair pulled up in a tight bun, smiling softly at the front camera. Nani recognized her surrounding to be SCBD.

She not only got a double text, but a selfie thrown in the mix, too. 

“Non?” Pak Sukidi called from the driver’s seat.

Nani looked up from her phone, annoyed to have to stop admiring Cantika’s smiling face. “Ya, Pak?”

“_ Wes sampe, _” Pak Sukidi said. 

Nani glanced out of the window. _ Oh _. True to his words, the car had already stopped right in front of the lobby, where the office boy was looking at her quizzically, perhaps wondering why she hadn’t stepped out of the car yet. 

“Oh iya,” Nani suppressed the urge to slap her own forehead. She quickly pocketed her phone—she wore another white suit today, wide-legged pants with pockets deep enough to fit the size of her iPhone. “Pak, nanti jam 6 jemput, ya.”

Pak Sukidi nodded. “Siap.”

Nani pushed the car open, and the same office boy rushed to her side to help her carry her things, which Nani declined politely. Walking briskly past the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, she was looking down at her phone, thinking hard on an equally witty response. 

**Today** 9:07 AM  
I still would’ve died. 

Anyway, makan siang di mana? 

Makan siang? Random amat tiba-tiba nanyain makan siang.

BTW, belom tentu. Siapa tahu dibantu oleh jin-jin penjaga. 

Nani snorted, very unladylike. God, it felt _ good _that Cantika remembered tiny parts of their conversation. 

**Today** 9:08 AM  
Mau traktir makan as a thank you :D 

Kecuali kamu ada shift pas makan siang. 

_ No opting out_.

As Nani pressed send, she caught out the corner of her eyes the elevator doors closing. “Hold!” she reached out, slipping a hand between the doors and sliding in. Her phone vibrated again, and she looked down, almost _ giddy _to read a response. 

**Today** 9:13 AM  
Ih, gausah repot-repot  
  
I insist. Please?  
  
Fine, but I get to pick the place.  
  
Yay! 😄😄 Anywhere you want 😉

The doors opened with an inconspicuous _ ding _. Nani didn’t glance up, caught up in staring at the left lower corner of her screen, where the three dots were dancing together, indicating an impending reply from the other side.

“Nggak turun?” 

Snapped out of her new hobby, Nani turned to her left. The voice belonged to none other than her lead scientist, staring down at her in what could only be described as _ judgingly _, his mouth pursed in a frown. 

Nani finally took a look at the floor number. As he said, it was the 32nd floor. Her floor. 

“Oh iya,” Nani forced a smile. “Makasih ya, Mas Sancaka.”

She could tell that the casual name-drop caught his attention. He didn’t give her a response, merely huffed and directed his eyes elsewhere, but Nani counted his silence as a win. At least he didn’t actively insult her. 

She racked up her bag strap on her shoulder. Before stepping out, she threw one last polite look at her lead scientist. And that was when she saw it—his bandaged up right arm. 

Instantly, the memory of the mysterious lightning man blowing up his own arm flashed in her head. It was the right arm, Nani remembered—details of the fight weren’t as clear as this one, but the gauntlet imploding on his arm, Nani remembered that one detail very clearly. 

The polite goodbye remained in her throat. As the doors started to close, all Nani could do was stare. Her phone vibrated twice, but Nani ignored it over the pounding of her heart. Mystery lightning man was tall and leanly built, just like her lead scientist. But it felt too—coincidental, too obvious somehow. 

Their eyes caught in the sliver of gap, and Nani held her gaze even as the doors fully closed.

_ God, _ Nani wanted to curse herself, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. _ Her own fucking employee? _

* * *

"Pak?"

Sancaka looked up from his table to see his secretary's head peeking from the small gap of the open door. "Ya, Sur?"

"Janji jam 1-nya Bapak udah di depan," Surya said, hesitantly. "Dibolehin masuk nggak, ini?"

Blinking, Sancaka glanced at his watch—the one delicately wrapping his injured arm. His afternoon appointment was a journalist from The Djakarta Times, claiming to be working on a profile-specific editorial regarding several prominent Indonesian figures, with Bapak being one of them. That was where he came in, she said; she needed to harvest personal experiences in living with Bapak and being his child for authenticity. 

Sancaka had been wary, but no one dared to namedrop _ Haedar Subandi _unless they were being seriously honest, and this woman contacting him seemed to be genuine enough, so he had said yes. 

“Pak?”

Blinking, Sancaka nodded. “Panggil aja, Sur.” 

He was feeling strangely anxious at this interview—especially because he hadn’t heard from Bapak since two nights ago. He didn’t know if Bapak had seen the news _ confirming _ Nani Wijaya’s survival, and frankly, he _ didn’t _want to know; call him a wimp and a coward, but Bapak’s wrath was the second last thing he wanted to face—right after Bapak’s disappointment, that is. 

When he saw Nani Wijaya in the elevator this morning, a part of him wanted to scream, frustration getting over him. Her polite greeting only reminded him of how bad had he royally screwed up—letting her walk free from the scene, bouncing back relatively unharmed. And he _ saw _the look on her face; the shocked turned high suspicion as they exchanged looks while the elevator door was silently closing—he could feel that she was onto him. 

His injured arm stung somewhat deeper as his mind dragged him back to being _ eighteen and watching Kanigara’s smoking car out of the TV— _

No.

Sancaka shook his head, forcing himself out of his reverie as he straightened himself. The door opened not so long after, as Surya excused a lady to walk into his office, and—

_ Oh. _

“Kita—pernah ketemu,” he said, no—_ blurted— _ at her before she could even reach her seat, before Surya could even close the door. The journalist was _ the _ journalist _ ; _ the one he caught on packing shrimps into a worn _ Tupperware _at the Wijaya Expo—the one he saw again in the press conference the day after, chasing the narrow entrance of the elevator. 

The one who was asking about his well-being unprompted, with a kind genuinity he’d rarely seen before, much less receive. 

The woman, instead of being surprised, was merely offering him a small chuckle. “Iya, bolak-balik—tapi nggak pernah kenalan,” she said, teasing, as she took her seat. “Wulan,” she said, when she was settled, offering a hand. Sancaka stared at the extended arm, befuddlement clouding him. She looked at him rather oddly, like she knew an inside joke he didn’t. “Kan kemarin, di lift, kamu tanya namaku—nah ini, aku jawab.”

_ Wulan. _

“Oh,” Sancaka said, dumbfounded, as he slowly took her handshake with his injured hand. “Aku—aku Sancaka.” 

_ Why was he suddenly _ ** _very _ ** _ nervous? _

Wulan laughed—her voice clear and somehow melodious. “Aku tau, kok.” She said, softly, with a kind smile that somehow _ warmed _Sancaka’s heart. “Makasih ya, udah mau ketemu sama aku hari ini.”

“Sama-sama,” Sancaka said rather absent-mindedly, still trying to wrap his head around her presence. His eyes trailed her every movement, as she set up her devices; an old-school recorder, a digital camera, and a small notebook. When she caught him looking at her, she tilted her head, letting her curls fall over slightly to her face. “Banyak juga, ya, peralatan kamu.” 

Wulan gave him a slightly surprised look, "ini masih mendingan, tau," she said, "biasanya kalau wawancara yang super formal, aku bisa bawa kru fotografi." 

Sancaka laughed sheepishly, noting how Wulan seemed to chuckle as well. "Kemarin, sama Bapak, pakai kru fotografi juga?" He asked, curiously. Bapak was never fond of pictures, the way he never really favored mirrors. Even in group pictures of their pseudo-family, Bapak pushed himself to the background, letting shadows fall on his scarred half.

Shaking her head, Wulan's smile dimmed. "Nggak. Pak Haedar-nya kurang berkenan." She said, tone slightly disappointed, but overall understanding. "Tapi aku dikasih beberapa koleksi foto pribadi beliau—ada foto kamu juga." She added, immediately, and Sancaka could see her grin brightening back. "Kamu lucu, deh, waktu kecil. Tapi ternyata kamu emang hobi manyun dari sananya, ya." She said, then imitating, and frankly slightly exaggerating, Sancaka's signature brooding expression before him.

Any other people, heck, even his subordinates, wouldn’t have enough guts to do what she just did; lightheartedly made fun of him, just for the sake of it. But Wulan seemed to have no qualms about it, treating him like an old friend rather than a stranger she was just occasionally seeing. Something about the casualty made Sancaka’s insides flutter. “Emang kamu tau, gitu, aku yang mana?” He retorted, “orang anak-anak Bapak banyak banget, gitu—kamu emang bisa nebak, wajahku waktu kecil gimana?”

“Bisa, dong!” she said, eyebrows narrowing as she took up the challenge. “Tinggal cari aja, mana yang paling serius, paling manyun, paling jarang senyum, tapi paling _ unyu— _nah, udah, ketemu.” 

Her blunt words, accompanied by a teasing smile, invited an impromptu grin onto Sancaka’s face. He’d expected another boring interview from an old-school newspaper, with a fumbling, awkward journalist that asked all the wrong questions. But instead Wulan came, and Sancaka was already at ease by her kindred presence even before the interview started. “Kamu pikir, aku—_ unyu?” _He asked again, the last word—a slang—foreign on his often-formal tongue. 

Wulan tucked a strand of curls behind her ear, suddenly very interested to look at her equipment. “Kamu waktu kecil yang unyu, _ malih _ .” She said, and Sancaka could very well detect the pink spreading her cheeks, beneath the light make-up blush. “Dulu mah, imut. Sekarang—amit-amit, ngerti _ ra.” _

Sancaka couldn’t help it; he laughed, soft and genuine, because this woman kept throwing him off his rhythm and he was _ enjoying _ it. “Nah, gitu dong, senyum.” Wulan continued, while Sancaka was laughing. “Santai _ sithik, _ gitu lho. _ Ben _ orang-orang nggak pada takut.” She said, as Sancaka shook his head, his smile now fully blooming. 

“Memang kamu takut, sama aku?” Asked Sancaka, voice laced with mirth. Wulan rolled her eyes, playfully, as she pressed the recorder on. 

“Kan aku bilang _ orang-orang, _ bukan aku,” She retorted, “udah, kita mulai aja ya wawancaranya—nanti ngobrol terus, _ guyon ngalor-ngidul _, malah ngaret, lagi.” She said, her javanese popping here and there, making an adorable appearance. 

Sancaka nodded, affirming her request. “Mau tanya apa saja?” He asked, not unkindly. 

Wulan hummed, glancing at him, “Kata Pak Haedar, kamu tuh paling _ ngalem _ dibandingin sama saudara-saudaramu yang lain,” She began, stealing a look at her worn notebook. “Gimana sih, hubungan kamu dengan Pak Haedar—kalau dari perspektif kamu?” 

Wistfully, Sancaka sighed—thinking about Bapak in a time so close to his failure was quite a difficult task, but he focused on the good ones, the ones that made his chest lighter, and pushed all rogue thoughts regarding the possibility of _ consequences _. “Bapak tuh, perhatian sama setiap anaknya,” he begun, “Kami tiap malam, kalau sedang belajar, Bapak pasti menemani—bahkan kadang mengajari kami, kalau beliau masih ingat dengan ilmunya.” He smiled fondly, recalling the times Bapak spent with him on their large house’s dinner table, explaining patiently about fractions and decimals and equations. “Saya paling suka waktu diajarkan fisika—Bapak sabar, meskipun saya bebal.” He laughed to his own words, and was pleasantly surprised when Wulan laughed as well. 

“Untung aja berhasil, ya,” She said, lightly, tilting her chin to his titular placard as she did so. Sancaka beamed at her acknowledgement. “Selain itu, apalagi?”

Tapping his fingers to the table, Sancaka catalogued through his thoughts, cherry-picking memories of him and Bapak, “Pernah, waktu kami kecil, diajak keliling Eropa,” He said, recalling. “Waktu itu, anak Bapak belum banyak, paling cuma ber-14. Tapi sama Bapak disewakan pesawat khusus, agar kami bisa bebas, berlarian, nggak khawatir untuk mengganggu penumpang lain.” He smiled, “Aku ingat, bapak rela ambil foto dengan kami satu-satu di taman bunga di Belanda, meskipun aku tahu pasti punggung dan lukanya nyeri berat karena keseringan ganti pose.” 

It was _ such _a happy holiday, a rare occasion where Bapak allowed them to do whatever the hell they wanted, with little to no consequences other than a strict reprimand. It was the first of a very few times when Sancaka was able to truly trust his siblings without fearing them and their powers, letting himself enjoy the flight, then the field of roses in the Keukenhof, then other tourist destinations Europe could offer. 

"Bapak juga suka… bacakan kami cerita sebelum tidur—terutama waktu kami SD," Sancaka continued, recalling the time Bapak would hop into their rooms, reading stories from si Kancil to The Little Prince. "Bahkan meskipun kami sudah bisa sendiri, kami tetap minta beliau untuk bacakan buat kami—dan kalau misalnya buku ceritanya sudah habis, Bapak akan mulai buat ceritanya sendiri." 

Let it be known that Bapak was a good storyteller, dragging them to his various world that was sometimes magical, sometimes mysterious, but always enjoyable. Sancaka would get wide-eyed as Bapak imitated the characters and made sounds for them, as he tended their wounds from all the training in the afternoon.

Amidst his trip down memory lane, he stole a glance at his interviewer—and was surprised when her smile grew somber, and she looked down intently as she put her pen down. It was as if Sancaka’s joyful experiences somehow reminded her of a personal pain. 

He hesitated for several seconds, before reaching an arm out—using his injured hand to lightly tap hers. “Hey,” He said, empathically, “Aku ada salah bicara?” 

Wulan’s head snapped, surprised and seemingly embarrassed about being caught upon. “Nggak, kok,” She rushed, reassuring him. “Aku cuma—ikut seneng aja, lihat ada orang tua angkat yang beneran sayang sama anak-anaknya.” She added, when he raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

The implication of her words intrigued him. “Kamu… anak angkat?” He asked, tentatively, his touch on her hand staying. 

Sighing, Wulan looked to her left, avoiding his gaze. “Udah lama.” She told him, curtly, implying an unresolved wound that twinged Sancaka’s chest. “Lagian, ini bukan soal aku; ini kan, soal kamu dan Bapakmu,” She diverted the conversation back to him, essentially letting the topic about her go. “Kalau soal kepribadian, menurut kamu Pak Haedar itu bagaimana?” 

_ Personality— _now that was a tricky answer; because now avoiding the memories where Bapak was less than pleasant seemed harder. Sancaka paused, steeling himself to draw the figments of experiences without letting the negative ones affect him. “Bapak itu… tegas.” He said, drawling his words. “Beliau itu tipe orang yang memberikan kami kebebasan untuk mengejar mimpi kami, tapi juga mengajarkan kami soal balas budi, dan juga soal menjaga kepercayaan beliau. Jadi kami diajari untuk mengerti posisi dan tugas kami masing-masing, dan melaksanakannya dengan baik.” 

It was the most apt description that could enough characterize how Bapak raised his children, without disclosing the training regimes and the deadly missions he bestowed upon each of them, personally. 

Wulan, however, seemed to be even more curious at this answer. “Posisi dan tugas?” She echoed, “tugas kayak… pe-er sekolah, gitu? Capaian ranking, dapat PTN bagus, atau bagaimana?” 

Sancaka ran his good hand through his hair, trying to find the right words so she wouldn’t prod any deeper. “Bukan, lebih ke… capaian immateril.” He spoke, firmly, “Bagaimana kami berbakti pada Bapak, seperti itu.” 

_ Like murdering his enemies in their sleep; steering the course of important events so that it would go the way Bapak wanted it to be—things like that. _

Wulan looked at him like she was piecing information together, her forehead creasing. “Hmm,” She said, humming, “Kayaknya jadi anak Bapak, banyak ekspektasinya, ya,” She concluded, softly, hesitantly. 

Sancaka nodded, giving her a half-smile. “Yah, tapi kan memang sudah seharusnya, anak berbakti pada orang tuanya?” He countered, almost challenging. 

Wulan nodded, eyeing him before writing down her notebook. “Pak Haedar kemarin juga ngomong gitu,” She said, idly. “Terus, kalau… tidak berbakti? Bagaimana?” She asked, tone far too light for it to be an innocent question. 

Taken aback, her words took Sancaka back to _ Kanigara. _“Lebih baik pergi.” He answered, quickly—curtly. “Sebelum menyesal; sebelum terlambat.” 

Wulan stared at him, intently, like she was weighing her next words, "kalau misalnya kebaktian it aspek yang penting," she said deliberately, "lalu, kenapa memilih bekerja disini? Kenapa nggak _ ngabdi _saja di salah satu perusahaan Pak Haedar? Kan ada yang bekerja di bidang inovasi teknologi juga, kalau ndak salah?" 

The words lurched out of Sancaka's mouth before he could even consider it; "karena tugas saya disini." He averted her gaze, inwardly cursing himself as he scrambled for cover. "Lagipula, disini pekerjaannya menyenangkan—lebih prospektif dan banyak tantangan." He said, with a tone of finality that didn’t give Wulan room to question, or challenge, his statement. “Ada pertanyaan lain?”

Wulan's eyes were wary, but then she let it go, looking back at her notes. “Kamu ikut Pak Haedar dari SD, kan, ya.” She begun, “Boleh ceritain, nggak, ketemunya gimana?”

The question dragged Sancaka back to being _ eight, _ lonely and afraid, finding shelter at cold corners of the street, crying himself to sleep. It brought him back to _ running; _ first for his mother—trying to find her, then from the kid thugs and street punks—trying to survive, then towards Awang—trying to reach his hands and failing, _ failing _ and _ oh God the train was going way too fast, he’s going to fail, he’s going to be alone again— _

“Hey,” 

Sancaka blinked, and then he realized that her hand was on his, a reverse on their previous position. “Kalau terlalu berat,” She said, softly, “Nggak usah diceritakan, nggak apa, kok.” 

She gave him a look of understanding, like she could comprehend all the repressed trauma Sancaka couldn’t even _ begin _to unpack. Her hand was running circles around his bandage-clad hand, trying to soothe his fraying nerves. Sancaka looked at her, who gave him a kind gaze, as if trying to convey as much empathy as she could muster. 

In that moment, Sancaka felt… _ cared for. _

“Nggak—apa.” He said, swallowing bile, his good hand tracing the permanent scar on his ear, feeling the ghost of past wounds prickling his skin. “Waktu aku kecil dulu, umur 7, Bapakku—Bapak kandungku, meninggal—eh, bukan—_ dibunuh. _ ” He shook his head, and then those venoms of _ hatred _returned, filling his veins with unbridled anger at the Wijayas, and their greed, and their ignorance of the people beneath them. 

Wulan’s circular motion soothed him, but she echoed his last word. “Dibunuh?” 

Sancaka nodded, bitterly. “Karena mendemo pemilik pabrik tempat dia bekerja—Pabrik baja, begitu. Padahal—Bapak cuma minta haknya.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “Lalu, satu tahun kemudian, Ibuk _ pergi— _katanya mencari pekerjaan, tapi kemudian tidak pernah pulang.” 

He could still remember his smaller self, clinging to Ibuk’s words like a lifeline, feeling his heart chipping day by day when the sun went down and she didn’t appear like she’d promised. Could still remember the stinging _ anger _ he felt when he realized she was _ never _going back. 

“Aku kemudian keluar dari rumah,” He continued, shoving all that rage, tucking it back to a neglected crevice in his heart. “Hidup di jalanan—sempat hampir mati, lalu diselamatkan anak jalanan juga—lebih tua daripada aku.” He said, smiling idly when remembering Awang, and that iconic sideways fringe of his, and the times he spent to train him, to nurture him, to give him shelter and care when no one would even bat an eye on children like him. “Tapi dia juga terus pergi.” 

_ Leaving, _it seemed, was a constant pattern of important people in his life. Everybody left; be it due to a sudden death, or disappearance, or an unchaseable departure—Sancaka always, always ended up alone, with no one to care for him. 

Until _ Bapak. _

“Hari waktu aku ketemu Bapak,” He thought, out loud, “Aku sedang kabur dari anak buruh pelabuhan yang mengganggu, terjebak di jalan besar, hampir tertangkap—lalu ada mobil berhenti.” He smiled, idly, “aku disuruh masuk—lalu ditawarkan untuk diantar ke kantor polisi, atau ikut mereka.” 

Sancaka could feel Wulan’s curious gaze, waiting for him to continue. “Mereka ternyata karyawan Bapak, yang kemudian mengantarkan aku ke beliau,” He looked down his fingers, smiling wistfully. “Sisanya—yah, sejarah.” He concluded, “setiap hari aku bersyukur—memutuskan untuk tetap di mobil itu.” 

Wulan nodded, softly, hands still touching his, calming, soothing. “Pertama kali bertemu Bapak, bagaimana kesannya?” She asked, kindly. 

Sancaka chuckled, recalling his younger self trembling in fear at the sight of Bapak’s deformed form. “Sangat takut,” He said, lightly, “Tapi terus aku dibelikan es krim satu _ pint _—aku tidak pernah makan es krim, omong-omong; dulu waktu aku masih di Bekasi, sama orang tuaku, kami terlalu miskin untuk beli, lalu di jalanan aku tidak punya uang sama-sekali.” Sancaka shook his head, and he could see Wulan smiling from his peripheral vision. “Bapak membolehkan aku menghabiskannya, sendirian.” 

Wulan giggled at this, which surprised Sancaka. “Kenapa?” He asked, amusement coloring his tone. 

“Nggak,” Wulan said, in-between giggles. “Cuma ngebayangin, kamu kecil, _ ambek _ muka manyun-mu, itu, ngabisin es krim satu wadah.” Her eyes brightened at him, twinkling humorously. “ _ Unyu _banget, pasti.” 

_ Unyu. _She kept saying that, when referring to him. He started to like the way that word sounded, coming from her mouth. 

“Bisa saja.” He said, bantering with her. Wulan merely threw him a witty glance, and when she withdrew her hand, Sancaka suddenly felt a slight loss for her touch. 

"Kamu kan, saudaranya banyak banget, tuh," She continued, "Ada saudara favorit, nggak?"

Sancaka's mind immediately launched to _ Cantika, _ and all her gentle kindness, coating him with so much love he could burst. Cantika who didn't hesitate to shower him affection, Cantika who made him feel _ safe _in a house filled with often times rowdy, dangerous children.

"Ada, kakakku," he said, softly, "Namanya Cantika—dia dokter bedah." He wistfully recalled their memories together, "Paling baik dibanding yang lain—paling gaul juga; bahkan lebih dari Mutiara." His gaze softened somewhat; thinking about kak Cantika had that effect on him. "Dia dulu waktu kecil selalu ngajakin aku kemana-mana, nggak marah kalaupun aku ikut mulu ke acara dia. Baik banget."

Wulan laughed, softly, "kamu waktu kecil kayaknya mirip, deh, sama adekku; sama-sama hobi _ ngintilin _mbaknya." Wulan said it with an affectionate tone, a tone that reminded him of Cantika whenever she was talking about him. Sancaka's heart warmed at that, at the blatant affection Wulan showered her brother even if the person in question wasn't there to receive it.

As Wulan launched to her next session of questions, Sancaka looked at his phone, deciding on something. His uninjured hand discreetly, expertly punched all the buttons necessary while he answered her queries, only occasionally glancing back at his phone. His focus, though, was on _ her; _how kind she was when she asked about his life, how appreciative she was with the information he gave to her, and how understanding she was when he winced, or looked away, or drew a heavy sigh at memories that might be too hard to recall. 

Wulan reminded him of the kind of warmth he’d rarely experienced before; the unbridled, unwarranted, undemanding type of empathy—the one that simply gave without asking much in return. 

Sancaka wasn’t prepared when times passed and Wulan had to end their small interview session. “Aku kayaknya sudah dapat semua yang aku butuhin, deh.” She said, voice light, as she turned off her recorder. “Paling tinggal ngefoto kamu, buat editorialnya—boleh?” She tilted her head at him, raising her digital camera. “Aku motretnya bagus, kok.” She added, when he looked at her warily.

He weighed his options, looking at her hopeful face and the half-lifted device, before nodding. He was awkward, and he didn’t want to make his bandaged arm visible in the results, but somehow Wulan managed to snap several good shots that flattered him and the general aesthetics. 

Sancaka looked at the results, then at Wulan, who looked triumphant at her snaps. “Tuh, bagus, kan?” She told him, hand hovering over his injured arm. Sancaka raised his hand, trying to see for himself, and his bandaged hand accidentally brushed hers. 

Huh—funny. They’d touched before, in the interview, as they soothed one another. And yet this one—this one made Sancaka blush. Wulan seemed to blush, too, as she was tucking a fallen strand behind her ear. But she didn’t pull her hand from his, instead, her blush immediately dissipated when she looked at the neat bandages.

“Aku dari tadi mau tanya, tapi lupa terus,” She said, idly, giving feathery traces to the seam’s lines. “Tangan kamu kenapa, kok bisa sampai diperban kayak gini?” 

Sancaka blinked, thrown off at the question. He should have expected it, he supposed—Wulan had been an extremely caring person since the first time she met him, from talking about _ mubazir _food wastes to reassuring him on that elevator to continuously soothing him through hard talks in this interview, but—

He was immediately reminded of two nights ago—of his _ failure. _ Of the task he’d failed to carry. Of _ the lightnings, betraying him, and of Nani Wijaya, barely escaping but _ ** _alive, still_ ** _ , meaning— _

“San?” 

“Ah, nggak.” Sancaka diverted, his voice distant and dissociating, “ini cuma—kesiram air mendidih. Waktu masak mie.” He repeated the lie Pak Agung had given him, the words flowing smoothly from his mouth. 

Wulan didn’t seem convinced, but she let it go, and continued to show the remnants of the pictures of him until there was no more. Sancaka then watched as Wulan tucked her equipment back at her bag, telling him a kind “_ makasih,” _as she straightened herself, ready to leave. 

Sancaka immediately shot a hand to hold her back. “Tunggu, bentar.” he said, almost pleading, as he stole a glance at his phone. _ Should be any seconds, now… _

Wulan raised an eyebrow, confused, as Sancaka continued, “sebentar aja—”

“Pak?” 

Both of them whipped their heads to Surya, peeking from the slight opening of the door, once more, but this time he held up his right hand, which was holding a white plastic bag branded _ EATLAH _on the front. “Tadi pesen go-food?” 

Sancaka held a hand to Wulan, signaling _ wait _ as he approached Surya to take the takeout. “Makasih, Sur,” He said, curtly, before turning back to Wulan.

He handed her the food; a salted egg fried shrimp, just like what she took at the Wijaya Expo event two days ago. Wulan checked the insides, her mouth gaping. “Buat adik kamu,” He said, when she looked up with wide eyes. Suddenly he felt very sheepish under Wulan’s surprised gaze, screaming inwardly because _ what was he thinking? Of course it was gonna be weird, they met once and already he was buying her food—God what if it was insulting for her—? _

“Maka—makasih,” She said, shaking him out from his internal crisis, and when Sancaka looked up, Wulan was smiling widely, her cheeks blushing. “Teddy—adikku—pasti seneng.” 

Sancaka immediately beamed, all doubts previously enclosing him now falling apart. “Sama-sama.” He said, sincerely. 

He was still smiling until she exited the room, catching her stealing a glance at him one last time before disappearing behind the door; still smiling when he returned to his seat; still smiling when he felt his phone vibrating, thinking it was perhaps Cantika, or his other siblings, or maybe—

Bapak  
  
**Today** 2:33 PM  
Kenapa Nani Wijaya belum mati?

* * *

Wulan felt so light-hearted the whole way out, she was practically skipping her steps like a giddy five-year-old, swinging her take-out plastic bag as she did so. 

Sancaka—that aloof, awkward Lead Scientist she’d continuously met—had been unexpectedly _ genuine _ and _ welcoming. _ He treated her as _ human _first, without preconceived notions about her job, her gender, or anything else, as her other subjects often would often fall into. This was, by far, one of her most memorable interviews—right after interviewing the very stunning Najwa Shihab, the student activists behind the 24 September massive protests, and, of course, Sancaka’s adoptive father. 

He’d even bought her _ food, _completely unprompted and unasked for. Technically, it was for Teddy—but even the fact that he’d recalled the type of shrimp she was taking at a party several days ago; the fact that he was thoughtful enough to buy her the same kind of meal; the fact that he handed it to her with an evident blush on his face, made her heart flutter. 

Even now, only minutes after talking with him, Wulan wanted to know _ more; _ more about _ him, _rather than only his life with his adoptive father. She idly toyed with the phone in her pocket, thinking about texting him later. Maybe she’d send his pictures she took as a conversation opener, and start from there—

And then she saw _ her. _

Nani Wijaya, in all her regalia, stopped dead in her tracks as they exchanged looks. 

Suddenly, all the giddiness in Wulan’s system was replaced with dread—and _ doubt. _ Part of her wanted to run away, like she always did when it comes to meeting with the Wijayas; but another part of her was so _ relieved _ to see Nani, standing there unharmed, with her own eyes, that she wanted to run _ to _her and hug the hell out of her childhood best friend. 

Her decision didn’t matter because in the next second, Nani was already in front of her, just like when they last met at the Expo. 

“Wulan,” Nani said, almost fervently—like her name was some sort of an incantation Nani _ longed _ to say. Wulan gulped, swallowing thickly, because now there were no elevator doors, no party to mask her emotions. She was standing there, before her estranged friend, completely unarmed and unprepared at the sledgehammer of _ feelings _that assaulted her senses.

“Nani.” 

And then, before she could let the anger take over her like many times before, Wulan pulled Nani into a bone-crushing hug. “Kamu tuh,” She said, voice quivering, “Mesti kalo nyetir, nggak pernah hati-hati.” She shuddered, “sampe mobilmu _ jumpalitan _gitu—kok bisa itu lho, Nan?”

She felt Nani, then, snaking her arms around Wulan’s waist, returning the tight embrace. “Maaf,” Nani had said, voice muffled by Wulan’s shirt. 

They stayed like that, two—_ whatever— _hugging in the middle of an empty hallway, relieved yet tense at each other’s presence. 

Wulan was the first to disentangle the hug, smoothing her skirt and shirt and clearing her throat. Nani was almost reluctant to let go, and her gaze trailed Wulan’s every movement. “Lan,” She began, “soal omonganku di Expo kemarin, aku—”

Wulan raised a hand; _don’t—_she was trying to say. _Don’t open old wounds, don’t start talking about the past, _because if they go there, then whatever Nani Wijaya was trying to rebuild with Sedhah Esti Wulan would crumble right before their eyes, burnt to a crisp by Wulan’s neatly tucked anger. 

Instead, Wulan asked, curtly, “Kemarin gimana, ceritanya, sampe kecelakaan?” 

She was being nice, here; extending a brand new olive branch rather than trying to regrow an old, dead one. Nani should take it while she could, if she still wanted _ something _out of this. 

“Aku—” Nani halted her speech, deliberating. “Ngantuk. Lost my sight to the street—things like that.” 

The lie was so smooth Wulan would’ve fallen for it if it wasn’t for the fact that Nani had her tell while she was saying it; glancing at her left side, biting her right lower lip. But Wulan didn’t wanna poke and prod for more, because Nani wasn’t her interview subject and she respected people’s boundaries, even if those people pissed the hell out of her. 

“Lain kali, bawa Pak Sukidi.” Wulan told her, her tone a cold reprimand, “_ wong _ dia itu kerja buat kamu, ya manfaatin, _ tho, _biar selamet.” 

Nani chuckled, sheepishly, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Iya,” She said, nervously, before peering over Wulan’s shoulder, her gaze turning curious. “Kamu… Ngapain kesini? Mau ketemu siapa?” She asked. 

Wulan shrugged. “Wawancara.” She said, vaguely. 

“With?” 

“_ Lead Scientist _ kamu,” Wulan said, her tone still clipped and somewhat annoyed, more to herself because she still can’t find the Indonesian equivalent to the job title. She _ hated _speaking anything in english, despite being fluent at it; it reminded her of—

_ Being a nine-years-old and crying, bawling her eyes out when Nani’s dad threw her a coffee cup for not speaking in his mother tongue— _

_ Being a sixth grader and getting yelled at in the car by Nani’s mom, because her english was accented with javanese and it was embarrassing the family, “dasar bocah kampungan—” _

Nani’s face contorted into something else, then, when she heard her answer; it took Wulan several seconds to recognize that it was _ fear. _“Dia?” She asked, disbelief coating her voice. “Ngapain kamu interview dia?” 

Raising her eyebrows at the sudden cry, Wulan crossed her arms over her chest, letting the takeout dangle from her grip. “Buat artikel.” She answered, her tone snappish. 

Nani narrowed her eyes, “Itu, tangannya—kenapa dibebat?” 

Wulan was starting to get suspicious at Nani’s behavior, and she wiggled her eyebrows in question. “Kok kamu _ kepo?” _She asked, almost challengingly. 

Nani shook her head, mouth opening and closing, as if trying to find the right words. “Kamu hati-hati, sama dia,” She said, finally, surprising Wulan with her words. “I feel like he’s… _ fishy. _ Like he’s hiding something— _ bad— _that will blow up in our faces.” 

Scoffing, Wulan was rather offended at Sancaka’s behalf. “Aneh-aneh aja, kamu Nan—jangan nuduh orang yang nggak-nggak, ah_ , _” She said, defending him. “Lagian, tau apa kamu soal baik dan buruk? Gak inget, dulu kalian gimana ke aku?” 

It was a low blow, attacking their personal history, but it worked, and Nani looked _ hurt. _ Wulan felt triumphant, but it was simultaneous with impending _ guilt. _

“Look,” Said Nani, running her hand over her hair, “I understand that what we did to you was—_ inexcusable _ is too kind of a word,” she sighed heavily, “Tapi ini beyond konflik personal. Ada yang—” She paused, thinking, “ada yang mencurigakan sama dia _ . _” 

Wulan rolled her eyes, “Dia _ Lead Scientist _kamu, Nan—Hargai sedikit, lah.” 

“Ya aku ngehargain, tapi—” 

“Udah, lah.” Wulan waved a hand, her previous relief now eroding, as the memories of their past grew more prominent. _ Wijayas and their demands, their suspicions, their willingness to tear people apart just because it doesn’t fit their molds _— “Aku disini buat kerja, Nan. Masih untung aku mau ngomong sama kamu, ngerti gak?” 

Nani looked at her with wide, guilty eyes, before averting her gaze. “I know.” She said, quietly, looking at her feet. “But I’m just—looking out for you, that’s all.” 

Wulan pressed her lips into a thin line, the grudge resettling itself to the front row. _ Looking out for you, _ that was always the excuse coming from Mr. and Mrs. Wijaya after they slapped her, after they yelled at her, after they locked her in a dark room for merely being curious, or accidentally disobeying their orders. _ We’re just looking out for you, Wulan— _

What a fucking bullshit. 

“Aku nggak butuh siapapun dari keluarga Wijaya buat ngejagain aku,” She said, her tone was cold now, like how she spoke to her back at the Expo. “Terakhir kali ada yang begitu, justru aku harus kabur, biar selamat, ingat?” 

The smile Wulan offered was wry and mirthless, and it made Nani shift in her stance, as she fiddled with her fingers. “For what it’s worth,” Nani said, softly, quietly, not quite meeting Wulan’s eyes. “I’m not my parents, and—” She sighed, her thumbs making a circular motion at the back of her hand, “I _ am _ sorry, Wulan. I’m trying to show you how _ much. _” 

The genuinity in Nani’s words inflicted guilt in Wulan’s chest, and she ran her free hand through her hair as well. “Aku tau.” She said, tiredly. “Tapi—nggak segampang itu, Nan.” 

Just because she was relieved of her safety, it did not mean that she forgave her sins. 

“Can we just—” Nani said, her tone desperately hopeful, “I don’t know—_ try?” _

Sighing, Wulan bit her lower lip. _ Trying, _now, that was—something. “Dilihat aja nanti, kedepannya gimana.” She glanced at her watch, relieved when the time showed 2.56 PM. “Udah ya, aku harus ngejar acara—buat bahan liputan. Kamu—” She paused, weighing her words, “yang hati-hati; jangan ngantuk kalo nyetir.” 

Nani nodded, before stealing a quick hug from her, surprising Wulan. “Kamu juga,” She whispered, before releasing, her touch lingering on Wulan’s shoulders. 

As Wulan walked out of the building, considerably less genuinely giddy and having more of a mixed feeling, her mind kept on racing to the same conclusion, over and over again; for there was _ something, _ something that Nani was _ hiding; _a piece of important information that would be crucial to justify her worries. Wulan could detect her hesitation in her words, could see her attempt to hold herself back. And the journalist in her was curious for more answers, for more reasons on why Nani was unnaturally scared at a seemingly harmless, if not slightly awkward man.

But a part of her kept on thinking about the word _ berbakti; _ about how it darkened the look on Pengkor’s face, and how it prompted dread onto Sancaka’s. She thought about how he answered her question regarding his job, telling her as if he was somehow _ stationed _ here, for some reason. But by whom—his father? And if so, for _ what? _

She kept thinking about the child who defected—who was _ erased, _Pengkor had said. Sancaka had been white as a sheet of paper when she asked about the possibility of betraying his father’s trust; what happened to the kid? What was the consequences of disobedience?

There was no doubt that Pengkor loved all his children beyond belief, but she couldn’t help but wonder: at what cost? 

Wulan wasn’t sure that she would like to know. 

Sighing, she hopped into the first bus she saw, going straight up to the Halte Senayan, mindlessly scrolling through social media just to get her mind off of Nani’s words. Gone were the giddiness she felt while interviewing Sancaka_ — _which was harmless fun, journalists weren’t supposed to get too close to their subjects, Wulan definitely did not have a crush on him and her heart was definitely not flipping when Sancaka bought her food. Wulan was interested in his story in relation to Pengkor, that was all. 

There was a suspicious lack of some asshole with _ sapiosexual _written on his bio tweeting her on why her views on feminism was wrong on Twitter, which meant it was a boring day on the bird App. She switched over to WhatsApp, intending to ask her editor if she’d been given the permission to interview Mutiara Jenar the next day, but her thumb slipped. She clicked on the chat with Anjani and was immediately attacked by a barrage of gruesome pictures of Dirga’s corpse.

She slammed her phone down on the seat next to her, screen down. Fuck. She’d been meaning to delete those, but never got around to. Bracing herself, she took a peek at the photos. The gallery was open, thankfully, to the least gruesome pictures of Dirga. This shot was taken by someone who was very much up close, probably a crime scene photographer. The way that Dirga fell was strange, Wulan always thought_ — _if Dirga was indeed plummeting to his death, why did he do it with both arms behind his back? As if something was restraining him?

Wulan took a deep breath. Against her better judgment, she zoomed in at his wrists. Thank fuck the picture was so high definition, otherwise Wulan would just be looking at a couple of pixels. Around the wrists, a little obscured by the cuffs of his sleeves, there was a red angry line, the kind that Wulan had seen in kidnapping victims_ — _but Dirga wasn’t kidnapped, was he?

Wulan stared at that little sliver of red line, contemplated, and finally deleted the pictures_ — _ the ones that feature Dirga’s cracked-open skull _ — _except for this one. She’d sit on it later.

By the time she arrived, it was already half past 3, which meant she was already late, but hey_ —jam karet. _True to the stereotype, Wulan had only seen a sliver of the total invitees She put on her PRESS badge to her chest, filling her institution on the guest book, and proceeded right in. 

Call her a skeptic, but all these ceremonies the Parliament had for Dirga, who hadn’t even been sworn in for more than a month, made Wulan think that their actions weren’t genuine. He had already been cremated, as his belief would have him, and this ceremony, held in a five-star ballroom of a five-star hotel with lavish edible gold-topped mini lobster rolls as hors d'oeuvre, felt very… _plastic_. Like this was just an excuse to spend more of the people’s money. Wulan bet not one person in her _rumah susun _had ever seen a lobster, let alone eat one. She should’ve brought along her beloved Tupperware_—_shrimp-loving Teddy would love lobsters. 

Although thanks to Sancaka, she no longer had to worry about dinner. The _ Eatlah _ take-out was getting cold inside her bag, though no worries _ — _Wulan could easily heat it up once she got home to a hangry Teddy.

She glanced down at her wristwatch, impatient. Still an hour to go in this event. Ridwan Bahri hadn’t even given his speech yet. Though what more could he say, Wulan had no idea. Ridwan had said everything that he could probably say about Dirga—he was a good man and a good father, a young, idealistic politician who had his life ahead of him. Why her editor in chief had assigned her to such a repetitive story when she could’ve spent the evening digging deeper into his death, Wulan would never know. She didn’t even feel like it would be _ ethical _for her to be eating. 

Though, obviously, she was the only one feeling that way. The rest of the ceremony certainly had no issues with treating it like a party_ — _ the same one Dirga died at. It made her feel sick to the stomach, seeing her fellow journalist friends cozying it up to Hasbi, Ridwan Bahri’s most loyal, and most talkative assistant. Though, Wulan saw the appeal of getting friendly to Hasbi _ — _ men like him were easy to coax information out of. He was not alone, Dirga’s wife _ — _ _ Cynthia Mahadewi, _ Wulan forced herself to remember _ — _ stood beside him, stiff even when she was smiling. Wulan couldn’t imagine being in her position, being invited to events like this over and over again, being _ reminded _of her husband’s death, again and again. 

Wulan turned her eyes away. Even if the event was repetitive, she could at least use it to be consistent on the respectful way she reported him. No clickbaits, no pictures of his corpse, and definitely not a single speculation about his non-existent depressive behavior. 

She eyed the gold-topped lobster rolls. If she squeezed them between the shrimp topping in her _ Eatlah _ box, she bet she could sneak in about five _ . _

“Aduh, Sadhah, sabar dong.” Wulan heard a voice behind her. Dirga’s wife had apparently disentangled herself from Hasbi’s group, carrying Sasha in one one hand and struggling with a small plate of food with another. 

“Nggak mau, Ma,” Dirga’s son was saying. He looked like he was near tears. “Nggak mau di sini.”

“Nggak ada apa-apa di sini, Sadhah,” Cynthia said. “Sebentar, ya, ini adek kamu belom makan.”

“Aku mau pulang,” Sasha mumbled.

“Sebentar, Sasha, ini Pak Ridwan aja belom datang,” Cynthia sighed. “Kalian bisa kan, sabar?”

Wulan approached her carefully. “Permisi, Mbak,” she said softly, “Boleh saya bantu bawa makanannya?”

Wulan expected a polite denial or understandable relief. She didn’t expect Cynthia to look surprised, and it wrenched something in Wulan’s heart, a little, knowing that in parties_ — _ let’s be honest, this was a party _ — _ that were supposed to celebrate the man her husband was, she probably never had anyone ask if they could help her. As were the nature of the people _ — _pitiful of the widow, but unwilling to lift a hand when she needed. 

“Makasih banyak ya Mbak,” Cynthia said, eyes shining with unshed tears_ — _the frustration of her children’s whining, grief at the constant reminder of her husband’s death, the clickbait media’s incessant discussion on her as a widow, and hell knows what else. Wulan gratefully took the plate of food from her. 

“Adeknya belom makan?” Wulan asked, referring to Sasha. 

“Belom, nih,” Cynthia said. “Sha, makan dulu ya sama_ — _sampe lupa nanya, namanya siapa Mbak?”

“Wulan,” she said, “Sedhah Esti Wulan.”

Suddenly, Cynthia’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Djakarta Times?”

Wulan nodded. “Kok Mbak tahu?”

“Kamu satu-satunya jurnalis yang nggak menaruh kata_ — _ ” Cynthia cut off, looking helplessly at Sasha in her arms and Sadhah hiding behind her legs. Wulan instantly understood _ — _ she’d insistently not put _ suicide _in any of her reportings on Dirga. “Kalau saya nggak gendong Sasha, Mbak saya peluk.”

How _ terrible _that was, that a headline that did not boast suicide when it came to her late husband made her happy?

“Ma,” Sadhah glanced up. “Ayo pulang.”

“Sayang,” Cynthia sighed. “Kan Mama udah bilang, kita harus nunggu Pak Ridwan, oke?”

“Nggak mau!” Sadhah was suddenly screaming. In that instant, the conversation in that ballroom halted, even the laughter of Hasbi and her journalist friends. All eyes were on him. “Mau pulang! Aku nggak mau di sini!”

Embarrassed, Cynthia leaned down so they were eye-level, balancing a quiet Sasha in her lap. “Sadhah, jangan teriak-teriak. Habis Pak Ridwan _ speech _kita pulang, oke?”

“Ada om-om botak! Aku gamau deket-deket!”

“Ya ampun, Sadhah, nggak sopan!” Cynthia berated. “Itu tuh Om Ganda, temennya Papa, minta maaf nanti ya.”

“Papa?” Sasha muttered, looking up with a heartbreakingly hopeful look in her eyes. “Ma, Papa mana?”

“Papa ngomong sama orang botak juga sebelum ilang, Ma,” Sadhah was no longer shouting. Instead, he sounded like he was pleading, and it shredded Wulan’s heart mercilessly. “Sebelum papa pergi—terus _ jatuh.” _

“Ngomong apa kamu, Sadhah?”

“Waktu kemaren, Ma,” Sadhah said, tearing up, “Papa pergi sama om-om botak juga, yang pake baju oren itu—terus habis itu _ jatuh _. Aku nggak mau deket-deket, nanti kayak Papa.”

Something suddenly clicked in Wulan’s mind. 

“Om-om botak…” Wulan stepped closer, kneeling so she could look into Sadhah’s crying eyes. “Pake kacamata nggak?”

Sobbing, Sadhah nodded. 

“Pake baju… oranye?” Wulan asked. 

Sadhah nodded again. 

She thought back on her interview with Pengkor yesterday, this time not dwelling on his peculiar answers or other oddities, no_ — _but the man that was always with him. Bald, of average height, spoke little words, wore circular dark glasses, and wore the attire of a monk: Kamal Atmaja. 

They were both in attendance at the party. Wulan may have been fighting with Nani the moment Dirga fell_ — _ no, not _ jump— _but she’d observed enough to know that Dirga must have been in contact with Pengkor, before his death. 

_ Menghilang. _

_ Dia kabur dari rumah, Pak? _

_ Katakan saja begitu. _

_ The rope marks on Dirga’s arms... _

“Mbak?”

Wulan blinked. She’d be standing in silence, and she hadn’t noticed. “Ya?”

“Kenapa?” Cynthia demanded. “Ada apa sama_ — _orang botak yang Mbak maksud?”

Wulan was barely constructing the theory, let alone collecting the evidence, and she shouldn’t even _ think _ about sharing any of these theories. False hope, twisted truths _ — _ she looked into Cynthia’s eyes, the bags under her eyes that said she hadn’t slept right in days, at the way Sadhah and Sasha was crying. Thought about the unlawful articles he’d read about Cynthia, after Dirga’s death _ —Kenali Cynthia Mahadewi, Janda Cantik Anak Dua Mendiang Dirga Utama… _

God, she had to give them justice. 

She held Cynthia’s hand. “Mbak,” she said, “Suami Mbak nggak bunuh diri.”

Cynthia gasped. “Mbak, tolong_ , _ saya nggak kuat denger teori-teori lagi _ — _”

“Nggak, ini bukan teori,” Wulan shook her head. With all the conviction she could muster up, she vowed, “Saya akan membuktikannya.”


	5. gangsal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pak, aku sumpah sedikit lagi saja, sudah kubunuh dia,” Sancaka said desperately, wanting Bapak to believe him, that Nani had been more than incapacitated, half of her face melting off like wax. “Aku--aku nggak cukup kuat menahan sakit, seharusnya aku bisa menahan sakitnya dan membunuh dia dengan pisau, atau mematahkan lehernya, tapi--”
> 
> But he was too weak.
> 
> His chest felt so constricted, he couldn’t breathe, God, death would be kinder than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh enjoy

The story went that Haedar Subandi was a bright, young kid who had his life planned out. He was going to inherit the family plantation and expand it to even larger heights, bringing more profits for the business. But at twelve years old, fate decided that he would not live that life when a series of betrayals and conflicts between his father and the plantation workers broke out, ending in both his parents murdered, their house burned down, and him, with his face half-melted, and crippled for life. Still alive, but deformed; his extended family had deemed him unfit to inherit all of the family’s wealth, and so a conniving uncle suggested that he be put in an abusive orphanage. The idea was to put him in more misery until he ended up dead, either by suicide or murder, so the wealth would go to him. 

Twelve-years-old Haedar _ did _ go through misery--abuse and pain like no children should ever endure--in that orphanage, but what his uncle never counted on was that one of the values that Haedar’s father always instilled in him was _ perseverance _. At night, while his abusers slept comfortably, Haedar organized the other orphans to stage a rebellion. Against all odds, the orphans managed to pull it off under his leadership, exacting revenge on those who abused them, burning down the orphanage down to its ashes so no other orphan would ever have to go through what they did. 

Haedar limped back to his home, only to find out that while he was gone, his uncle had sold it for cheap to a family of four. They’d burned the plantation and turned in into that of a palm oil, paid the workers for cheap, _ punished _them for taking even one minute of a break, and when one of them died, they had the others silenced, so the story wouldn’t break out. On top of the remains of Haedar’s old house, they built another one--bigger and better, dug up his parents’ graves so they could construct the foundation there, and let their two daughters to happily dance where Haedar once hid from the fires. 

In a fit of rage, Haedar went to his uncle’s residence and demanded that his inheritance be given back to him--

(--he gathered his fellow orphans again, told them that he was promised an inheritance that could buy them a good life, but it was withheld by an undeserving uncle that hated him, so if they could just _ eliminate _the uncle out of the picture--)

\--and once he acquired it, he wanted nothing more than to immediately buy back his family’s land, but he knew that there were more pressing matters at hand. A huge portion of his money ended up going to his fellow orphans--to send them back to school, so they could learn how to make money without committing crimes, be the dreams that they never dared to dream while in the orphanage, another portion to start his own business--

(_ \--my business is straight-forward, you see. You need some people to be silenced, and we have the means to do it in the most effective way. For the right price, you’d never have to worry about those assholes haunting your past--) _

Ten years later, when all his fellow orphans had succeeded and his own business had grown, Haedar finally went back to his old plantation house, offered to buy it for twice the price that it was worth today. The family refused--they would rather work with the devil himself than some cripple with half a face, they said. _ Pengkor, _the father insulted him, shooing him away. 

Haedar only smiled as he left. The next day, he purchased a competing palm oil plantation, and sold it so cheap that everyone ended up buying from him, putting that goddamn family out of business. Then, as the family struggled to get back on their feet, Bapak came to them, all benevolent, and offered them a business deal. An acquisition was negotiated--in the end, Bapak bought their business for half the price that his uncle sold it, demolished the perfectly fine house, and built a new one on top of it--the house that would soon be home to many orphans across the nation, creating a large family of interconnected, special individuals, excelling in different industries, according to their passions.

That story was one that Sancaka had heard many times--Bapak himself never told the story in its entirety, but it was a well-known tale in the household, told from one orphan to another, and every time that Sancaka heard it, he was left in awe. Bapak was a phoenix, unburned by fire and rising from his own ashes, every time. Perseverance, Bapak said, was the key to unlocking the secrets of life. 

But failure was also unacceptable.

In that long hallway that separated the _ omah _ from the _ pendopo _, Sancaka stood still, awaiting judgment. He didn’t dare look at the ornate double doors in front of him--it felt like it would unleash hell, somehow, and while Sancaka knew that he deserved nothing less, he had to admit, as loathe as he was, that he was scared. 

This hallway--the _ pringgitan _ \--was where many of his most enduring memories took place: his training sequences, capture the flag, a high-stakes hide and seek game with his siblings. Sancaka wondered if it would also be the place of his death-- _ Kanigara’s flames burning bright, as if he could feel the heat just from his television _ \--after all, Bapak had given him so much, provided him with all the facilities and resources that one could only hope to dream of, but he’d still _ failed _. 

But perhaps the punishment wouldn’t be too bad. Perhaps it would be two hours inside Kamal’s fantasy world, or a game of capture the flag with the stakes raised, just a little--

Perhaps Bapak would even _ be _benevolent. 

Just when he thought he would die of anxiety, the double doors opened, and Bapak walked out with Kamal on his side, as always. Sancaka didn’t dare steal a glance, try to guess the meaning behind the expression that Bapak wore, too scared to, too _ undeserving _ to even have the _ honor _of looking at Bapak in the eyes.

“Sancaka,” Bapak spoke, and Sancaka shuddered at that tone. It reminded him of the rumble just before a lightning struck, and it pushed him down to his knees. 

“Pak,” Sancaka whispered, and he hated the way his voice shook, hated the way he sounded so _ scared _, no different from that little kid who used to hide bread underneath his shirt in case he needed to run away from this home. “Bapak, maafkan saya--”

He dragged his feet towards Bapak, one excruciating step by one excruciating step, still on his knees, not daring to be even on the same height as Bapak. “Maafkan saya, Pak,” Sancaka said at his feet, putting his palms flat against each other at his forehead. “Saya tidak cukup kuat, tidak cukup _ hebat. _”

Bapak was un-blessedly silent. 

Fuck, Sancaka wanted to cry. He’d never felt such a hatred for himself compared to now. “Pak,” he muttered, “Saya mohon, maafkan saya--”

Then Bapak kneeled down. 

Sancaka stared at him with wide-eyes. He knew it must be hell on his bad leg, and he could see Kamal, behind him, making a move like he was about to stop Bapak from doing it. But Bapak let out not even a single flinch, and in his eyes, there was only _ forgiveness. _

“Buat apa kamu ndodok begitu, Sancaka?” Bapak asked. “Bapak ini bukan raja yang gila hormat, sampai kamu tidak berani melihat mata Bapak. Kenapa kamu menunggu lama sekali buat pulang ke rumah?”

How could Sancaka even begin to explain it? The immense respect that Sancaka had for him, the _ disappointment _ in himself, the fear of Bapak being disappointed at him, how could Sancaka face him, look at him in the eyes, and tell him that he’d failed?

Bapak glanced at his bandaged-up arm. While they were healing faster than the normal human rate, they were still tender to the touch, not fully healed. “Ini karena kamu melawan titisan dewi itu?”

Sancaka noded. 

“Apa yang terjadi?”

“Petirnya--” Sancaka pushed through the weight in his throat. “Alatnya gagal menahan voltase dari petirnya. Jadinya rusak, dan karena itu titisan dewi itu berhasil kabur.”

“Kabur?”

“Pak, aku _ sumpah _sedikit lagi saja, sudah kubunuh dia,” Sancaka said desperately, wanting Bapak to believe him, that Nani had been more than incapacitated, half of her face melting off like wax. “Aku--aku nggak cukup kuat menahan sakit, seharusnya aku bisa menahan sakitnya dan membunuh dia dengan pisau, atau mematahkan lehernya, tapi--”

But he was too _ weak _.

His chest felt so constricted, he couldn’t breathe, _ God, death would be kinder than this _.

Bapak put one hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at his eyes. “Sancaka,” Bapak said, “Lihat Bapak. Apa Bapak sekarang terlihat marah?”

Sancaka slowly shook his head. 

“Karena Bapak memang tidak marah,” Bapak said. “Tidak semua hal yang baik itu tercapai dengan satu kali percobaan. Kamu tahu bagaimana caranya Bapak mengambil kembali rumah ini dari keluarga Wijaya? Bapak datang ke mereka, dengan tawaran menggiurkan, tapi mereka tidak mau bekerja sama dengan Bapak karena Bapak cacat. Akhirnya apa? Bapak harus mencari cara lain, Bapak memainkan permainan mereka, menghancurkan pasar mereka, buat mereka bangkrut. Baru, pada akhirnya, Bapak bisa kembali memperoleh rumah ini, untuk membangun keluarga kita.”

Sancaka nodded--he knew that part of the story. That family, despite being shown _ mercy _ by Bapak, despite _ thriving _ again, under Bapak’s influence--they’d forgotten to be thankful. In their arrogance, the generations that came after them dared to boast that they were a self-made billionaire dynasty, when in fact, everything that they had on the table was a _ gift _from Bapak. 

“Butuh dua _ kali _,” Bapak said, the emotion making his voice come out in a croak, “dan setelah Bapak beri kebaikan, mereka melunjak. Mereka beli pabrik baja, dan bunuh ayahmu karena ingin meminta upah yang adil.”

In cold-blood, the Wijayas had killed his blood father. This was why Nani Wijaya did not deserve to be Sri Asih, the so-called savior of the wretched world, this was why she had to die. How could the world ever believe in a woman who was born in a family that had a body count on it? How could she ever fight for the world, where she had fought for nothing in her life? She grew up privileged, with a foreign father that gave her the Caucasian features that this country lusted over, spoon-fed the title that she now held. Nani was just going to end up like the rest of her family--first it was his blood father, but it could be _ anyone _, anyone who dared to stand in their way, anyone who dared to speak up against their injustices.

“Kegagalan itu jika kamu menyerah,” Bapak said. “Tinggal sedikit lagi, apakah kamu akan menyerah?”

Sancaka shook his head. “Tidak akan pernah.”

Nani Wijaya had to die. If not the crimes of her family, then for the crimes that she would sure to commit in the future. 

“Bagus,” Bapak’s lips quirked up in the tiniest smile, and Sancaka felt _ relief _bloom in chest, but not long before Bapak suddenly seized his bandaged up and squeezed it. Not too hard, but just enough that Sancaka felt the pain of pain through his body. “Karena kesempatan kedua tidak datang dua kali, Sancaka.”

Sancaka gritted his teeth through his pain. “Iya, Pak.”

Not out of surprises, Bapak pulled him into a hug--one he hadn’t received since he was little, and crying because the lightning struck him when Bapak told him to aim it at him. “Jika satu kali adalah ketidaksengajaan, dua kali adalah kebetulan, dan tiga kali adalah sebuah _ kebiasaan _,” Bapak said next to his ear, “Jangan sampai kejadian ini terulang untuk ketiga kalinya.”

“Tidak, Pak,” Sancaka pulled himself away, looking straight into Bapak’s eyes, “Saya janji, untuk kali ini, Nani Wijaya akan mati.”

Gingerly, Bapak rose to his feet, Kamal holding on lightly to his elbows for support. He looked down at Sancaka. “Jika tidak?”

Sancaka held his gaze, and promised him, “Maka saya yang mati.”

* * *

“Ted?”

“Hm?”

“Senyum, dong.”

Teddy looked up from his recently-emptied dinner plate, throwing a peace sign and a very innocent, unbridled, yet slightly confused smile, for Wulan to immortalize her little brother into a picture, grinning mischievously. “Ngapain motret-motret, Mbak?” He asked as Wulan tweaked the picture a bit, brightening it. 

“Nggak,” Wulan replied, absentmindedly, as she then clicked the ‘_ share’ _icon, “Mau ngirim ke temen Mbak, tanda terima kasih.” 

“Eh?!” Teddy’s confusion was immediately replaced with a comical panic, as he shot up from his rattan seat. “Lah, aku kira cuma iseng doang, kok malah dikirimin ke orang sih?” He complained, rushing into her side. “Kan aku masih kumus, mbak, belum mandi!” He grumbled, trying to get a better look at the picture. 

“Makanya, anak gede, kalo habis pulang main tuh langsung ganti baju, mandi, biar nggak gembel--jangan langsung nyosor aja ke meja makan,” Teased Wulan, slightly tilting her phone to allow her brother a clearer view. 

“Ih, mbak Wulan bisa kena pencemaran nama baik tau nggak, kalo beneran dikirim,” Teddy squeezed Wulan’s arm playfully, being very mock-dramatic about it. 

“_ Halah, iso ae,” _ Wulan instead pinched his cheeks, “Emang _ kowe _ ngerti, pencemaran nama baik _ ki opo?” _

“Ya ngerti, lah! Aku kan pinter!”

Wulan laughed, mussing his hair affectionately. “Iya, iya_ ,” _ She said, waving a hand, “Wis, kamu _ ndang _ mandi sana--biar harum, nggak dekil.” Teddy whined, but reluctantly followed her order, much to Wulan’s adoration. Her little brother was so _ pure. _

“Emang mau dikirim ke siapa to, Mbak?” He asked, as he grabbed clothes from the cupboard and his towel from the clothesline. 

“Temen Mbak, yang tadi beliin itu udang.” 

“Oh,” Teddy paused midway from his trip to the bathroom, throwing a glance at Wulan, “Pasti cowo, ya?” He added, slyly, causing Wulan to look up from her phone, head snapping in surprise as warmth filled her cheeks. 

“Apaan, sih!” 

But Teddy only laughed, giving her an all-knowingly mischievous smile, so similar to the one she threw at him earlier, before walking to the bathroom, where Wulan couldn’t get him. Wulan opened and closed her mouth, her rosy cheeks apparent as she opened and closed her mouth, trying to form a witty rebuttal to a kid that was no longer there. 

Once the embarrassment had receded, Wulan glanced back to her phone, looking at Teddy’s picture that was sitting right at the chat-box to Sancaka’s contact--ready to be sent. But her fingers hovered at the button instead of immediately pressing in, contemplation getting into her. 

Her mind kept returning back to Cynthia Mahadewi and her two very traumatized children; to Sadhah’s cries, to the rope marks on Dirga’s wrists. To Pengkor, but especially to _ Kamal-- _and his mysterious involvement to Dirga prior to his death. She thought of the hasty police investigation surrounding Dirga’s fall, at the breakneck announcement of his cause of death, and wondered; Just what, exactly, happened?

Sancaka’s name glared back at her--waiting, anticipating. She wondered if he _ knew-- _

_ (Tapi tau _ ** _apa?_ **

_ Kamu bahkan nggak tau apa yang kamu _ ** _cari, _ ** _ Wulan.) _

But he seemed _ genuine, _ even going so far as to buying her food and soothing her when she looked somber. He was warm, and soft, and something _ different _ entirely that Wulan _ wanted _to trust him--freely, without any hesitation, but--

But Dirga, and Kamal, and Pengkor, and _ berbakti-- _

Sighing, Wulan threw her head to the headrest of the sofa, mind whirring a million miles per second, trying to weigh the odds. She ran her hand through her hair, closing her eyes as her thoughts warred on their own. Glancing at her phone, Wulan huffed. 

In the end, she chose to hit send--giving him the benefit of the doubt. 

She immediately put her phone, face down, preventing herself from getting way too much hope on being immediately replied. It was, after all, non-working hour, and she was _ nobody _to him, other than some random interviewer he'd continuously met under impressionable circumstances, so--

Her phone was vibrating, almost scaring the shit out of her as she jumped, immediately scrambling to pick it up and check. 

Sancaka (Wawancara!!)  
  
**Hari ini, ** 19.44 WIB  
[](https://i.imgur.com/298ff31.jpg)  
Makasih udangnya, anaknya suka 😉  
  
**Hari ini, ** 19.48 WIB  
Wah, syukur, lah  
  
Dibagikan juga ke tetangga yang lain?  


Wulan _ hated _how giddy the quick reply made her feel; she felt like she was thrown back to being starstruck at a cute senior in high school, noting how Sancaka seemed to remember her casual anecdote regarding food distribution at their first meeting. Almost as quickly, she was already typing a reply back, almost too eager.

Iya, nih, orang-orang juga pada seneng hhe  
  
Sekali lagi makasih ya!! Seneng banget anaknya, sampe abis banyak banget ini hadeeeeh😩  
  
Gapernah makan udang seenak ini katanya, dasar adekku alay emang   
  
Kapan-kapan, lah, kalau dia mau, aku ajak ke konter Eatlahnya langsung. Dia bisa makan sepuasnya.  
  
**Hari ini, ** 19.50 WIB  
Sama kamu, tentu saja.  
  
Kalau kamu mau ikut…?  


God, why did her chest had to _ flutter _at that? She was supposed to be reasonably wary to him, not fawning over these very formal, yet very cute replies. Wulan sighed, typing and deleting, reformulating the words into her head.

**Hari ini, ** 19.52 WIB  
wkwk kalo dia mah pasti mau  
  
tp gausah repot2!!!!  
  
Tidak repot, kok.  
  
Malah aku yang harusnya berterima kasih. Aku terhibur sekali, lihat Teddy senang. Menenangkan penat hari ini, rasanya.  
  
Aku tidak salah ingat nama adikmu, kan?  


How could he make EYD-sounding replies adorable in the most respectful way was _ beyond _her, and as she was typing her replies, Wulan bit her lower lip, trying to balance the butterflies in her chest and the knots in her gut--anxiety and joy, mixing to one. 

**Hari ini, ** 19.55 WIB  
Nggak kok bener namanya Teddy wkwkwk   
  
Ah, bagus, lah.  
  
Omong-omong, bagaimana acaramu tadi sore? Lancar-lancar saja, kan?  


Wulan blinked, reading the reply from Sancaka twice over. She had innocently told him about the funeral at DPR, earlier this afternoon, during their interview--oh how it seemed like a lifetime away now, her unaware self completely absorbed at his welcoming presence. But Sancaka was asking about it now, actively; unbeknowingly giving Wulan an opening to _pounce._

**Hari ini, ** 19.56 WIB  
Iya kok, td ketemu istrinya pak digra juga   
  
*Dirga  
  
Sama anak-anaknya   


Wulan was in the midst of typing and retyping, trying to formulate an alluding chat to trap him into giving her information, when a reply suddenly popped, two at once.

**Hari ini, ** 19.57 WIB  
Bagaimana keadaan anak-anaknya?   
  
Apakah mereka tidak apa-apa?   


Huh. Now that--that was a question Wulan did _ not _expect; not at all. It was an odd inquiry, one focusing on the children's wellbeing that was completely unprompted. Wulan read it, several times, trying to decipher if there were any underlying tones beneath the concern.

**Hari ini, ** 20.01 WIB  
Yagitu, bingung, nangis  
  
Masih pada kecil kecil ya, masnya aja ngomong belum tatag, masih cadel   
  
Kenapa nanyain?   
  
Ah, tidak, hanya khawatir saja.   
  
Tidak anak yang pantas melihat Bapaknya meninggal, apapun situasi dan alasannya, begitu.  
  
Lagipula, Bapak mereka meninggal di acara perusahaan tempatku bekerja. Aku kepikiran.   
  
O Semoga mereka baik-baik saja kedepannya.   


The empathy that he displayed to Dirga's children was unwarranted, the guilt even moreso, and it _ warmed _ Wulan's heart. She hoped that it was some kind of an indication that he was _ genuine, _ that he was _ good, _ that whatever it was currently unfolding before her, he took _ no _ part of it.

But as she read the words, over and over, trying to decide on a good reply that could prod him without his awareness--

(_ Mungkin ngomong sesuatu soal Sadhah nangis gara-gara takut sama orang botak yang pakai baju biksu--lihat bagaimana reaksinya? _

_ Atau menanyakan soal Kamal, apakah dia ada di Expo kemarin? _

_ Ah, sial, segala hal ini membingungkan baginya.) _

\--her guts was telling her that she had to be _ careful with this one love-- _a tell that was persistent, nagging her stomach like a tight knot. Wulan was about to hit send on a sentence she'd finally managed to pull together, but once again, Sancaka beat her to it.

**Hari ini, ** 20.03 WIB  
Oh, ya, boleh tidak aku minta foto yang tadi?

The diversion of conversation was obvious, but it would be even more obvious if Wulan steered it back to the conversation about the earlier party. She sighed, storing her questions and curiosities for _ later, _choosing to entertain him instead. She had a feeling that she needed to play the long game if she wanted to uncover… whatever this was.

At the very least, if he turned out to be--_ God forbid-- _involved with… the thing Wulan was chasing, then he could be her unwitting informant.

But she was praying at every deity available to _ Tolong, Tuhan, _ she silently begged, _ Tolong, semoga dia nggak terlibat. _

Wulan was midway waiting for the pictures to send when a chat popped up at her notification bar--one she'd never thought she'd seen, much less initiate a contact with, prior to this day.

But good God, Wulan promised to Cynthia--and _ she _was the best choice that Wulan got to uncover this mystery--to deliver her promise to the weeping widow.

❌❌❌❌  
  
**Hari ini, ** 20.10 WIB  
Lan, aku udah dibawah, nih  
  
What floor is your loft?   


Sighing, Wulan texted her reply, informing her where to approach. As she waited her to come up, she tapped back at Sancaka's chat, seeing a simple _ terimakasih banyak, ya; foto kamu bagus-bagus. _written in the replies for her pictures. Wulan exhaled, thoughts addling her brain, making her dizzy.

Not too long after, Wulan heard two soft knocks at her door, hesitant, as if whoever behind that door wasn’t sure whether they were allowed. Wulan looked at her phone for a split second before putting it face down on the coffee table, going up from her seat to open the door.

Beneath the yellow, dull light of the cheap _ rusun _ hallways, Nani Wijaya looked tired--but still she managed a smile. Wulan could see the relief in her eyes, and wondered if it had to do with Wulan calling her up, finally, after her many attempts at reconciling. The truth was that Wulan wasn’t sure if this was the right move—looking at her still hurt, still brought back the memories of being scrutinized under the spotlight as the Wijayas’ token adopted child, being forced to become the perfect little Javanese princess that she never was, the hits she’d taken and the harsh words she’d internalized, all while Nani looked on and did _ nothing _. 

And yet, still, looking at Nani brought the pleasant memories that she’d buried, too. The nights they spent underneath the blanket fort, reading _ manga _comics that Nani’s mother hated, learning how to paint each other’s nails, braid each other’s hair—Wulan spent so many years repressing those memories so she could keep being angry at the Wijayas. Nani’s death scare forced her to remember, reconsidered—after all, she wasn’t the only one who got slapped and yelled at. Nani’s mother did not discriminate when it came to criticizing her daughters.

Perhaps it was another reason why Wulan picked up the phone, but most importantly, Wulan needed more resources, and Nani could provide them. Wulan wasn’t above working with the ghosts of her past to get her job done—she’d promised Cynthia closure, and she would never go back on her promise. 

Wulan smiled back. “Lama juga,” she commented, opening the door wider so Nani could walk through it. 

“Traffic—” and then, catching herself, Nani restated, “Macet. Apalagi daerah pasar, jam pulang kantor. Nyaris sejam aku di depan pasar.”

Wulan appreciated that conscious effort; it was better than _ back then, _ at least, when Nani understood her disdain to the foreign tongue and yet still silently supported her parents forcing Wulan to use it in family functions, only allowing her to use Javanese in front of the Wijaya’s kind grandmother, or other people they were trying to impress so they would say, _ Oh, such a kind family, you’d let this street scoundrel keep its exotic little language! _

“Lagian pake mobil,” Wulan said, “Naik gojek nyampe kok, 15 menit paling lama.”

Nani grimaced. “Masih nggak boleh pergi-pergi sendirian. You know, ‘cos of,” she hesitated, “the accident. Anyway—” she held up the paper bags Wulan didn’t realize she had been holding the whole time. “Aku bawa sesuatu, kalau kalian belum makan malem?”

Teddy, previously uninterested in the new guest, looked up at the mention of food. Music must not be playing from the headphone he was wearing. Wulan grinned at him as she accepted the paper bags from Nani. “Nih, Ted, makan lagi,” she said as Teddy approached them, curiously looking inside the paper bags. She turned to Nani, “Makasih, ya. Sebenernya nggak usah repot-repot.”

“Nggak apa-apa,” Nani said, “It’s the least I could do.”

Wulan smiled tightly, trying not to show how much it rubbed her the wrong way to have Nani bring them food like this, saying that _ it’s the least I could do _. The Wijayas loved to think that; money, in cash form or in gift, always solved problems, according to them. As if a few instances of kind gestures could erase the amount of trauma that she had to endure as a child. 

But if they were to work together, then Wulan would have to try to not think the worst of Nani, so she held her tongue and didn’t comment.

“Ayo, ngomonginnya di meja makan aja,” Wulan said. “Di ruang tamu berantakan.” 

Wulan led Nani there, Teddy running past her and sitting down in his favorite chair. Wulan set the paper bags on the table and pulled out the food containers, one by one—Nani had brought them cheesecake, dumplings, noodles, and trendy bobba drinks. Entirely too much for dinner, but Wulan could always share some to her neighbors. 

“Duduk,” Wulan told Nani, and she watched her take a seat across from her, awkward and out of place. The gap between never stood out so much, now that Nani was here, in her pristine white designer suit, facing Wulan, who felt inadequate in her worn out jeans and second-hand button-downs. She hated how Nani always had that effect on her, making her feel _ lacking _ even when they were sitting at her own dinner table. 

“Um,” Nani eyed Teddy, “Ini nggak apa-apa, adek kamu di sini?”

“Dia sibuk nonton YouTube,” Wulan said, “Nggak akan denger.”

Nani smiled. “Udah besar, ya, Teddy. Nggak percaya udah lama banget sejak…” 

“Sejak apa?” Wulan chased her, defiant. 

“Sejak kamu pergi,” Nani said, her voice small. 

_ No, I didn’t leave. I ran away, there’s a fucking difference, you self-absorbed asshole _. 

Wulan shook her head. “Ya udah, nggak penting. Aku ngajak kamu ke sini bukan buat bernostalgia.” She ignored the way Nani’s face fell. “Aku mau ngomongin soal Haedar Subandi.”

Nani’s face was blank. “Siapa…?”

Wulan clicked her tongue. God, one of the biggest investors in Wijaya Industries, and Nani couldn’t bother to remember his full name. “Pengusaha yang... punya luka bakar berat itu, lho," Wulan tried again, "Yang dipanggil Pengkor.”

“Oh,” Nani said, drawling her word slowly. “Bukannya dia ayahnya _Lead Scientist_ gue, ya?”

Wulan nodded. “Ayah angkat, dan bukan cuma Sancaka; banyak banget anak yatim di luar sana. Sabang sampai Merauke, Pak Pengkor merawat banyak banget anak-anak yatim seperti Sancaka. Djakarta Times ngasih aku tugas untuk ngewawancarain dia buat kolom khusus kita di biografi, tapi semakin aku menggali ceritanya, semakin banyak hal tentang Pak Pengkor yang aku temuin.” Nani leaned in as Wulan lowered her voice, “Aku punya suatu teori, yang kalau emang benar, bisa menjelaskan semua yang terjadi dengan Dirga Utama.” Wulan paused, then, “Mungkin tentang Sancaka juga.”

Nani looked serious. “Oke. Tell me what I need to do.”

Wulan took a deep breath. “Kita mulai dari malam di mana Dirga Utama meninggal dunia…”

* * *

Working with Nani, as it turned out, was easier than Wulan had expected. Then again, the ball was in her court—Nani wouldn’t risk jeopardizing their estranged, fucked-up friendship by not cooperating. Like Nani said, it was the least she could do. 

They’d set up a plan last night to review the CCTV tapes from the party, which Nani guaranteed she would acquire in less than a day. Wulan had then sent her own way, and, after shoo-ing Teddy to bed, sat down at the dinner table, formulating a plan to get as much as she could out of her next interview: Mutiara Jenar, the supermodel of little to no words. 

Wulan had watched many videos of her interview, and Jenar had been frugal with her words, sometimes even downright _ cold _. While her personality matched the mysterious girl persona that her agency capitalized on, Pengkor picking up Jenar as Wulan’s next subject made sense: Wulan wasn’t going to get anything out of her. But Wulan had to try.

Her editor said that Jenar had graciously spared her fifteen minutes of her busy photoshoot day before she took off to Los Angeles. So, thirty minutes before their appointment time, Wulan had stood by, waving her press badge around so nobody bothered her while a dainty photographer took many pictures of Jenar while yelling, “Absolutely fetch, darling!” 

When Jenar caught Wulan’s eyes, she scowled. Wulan simply waved; this wasn’t the first time she had to interview someone who really didn’t want to be. Finally, she took a break and stalked towards her, all 180 centimeters of her, grabbed a folded chair and sat down across from her. 

She was so intimidatingly stunning. Wulan was beginning to suspect that she had no pores.

Flashes went off, once in a while, the hustle and bustle of the busy photoshoot day behind them not pausing for one second. It was a Bazaar’s photoshoot, and true to its high fashion commitment, Jenar was wearing the most exquisite dress Wulan had ever seen. The theme was birds of paradise, and her dress, with a long trail behind her, mimicked the shape of a _ Cendrawasih _, melting into her skin like liquid gold. The long slit that went up to her thigh exposed most of her legs, but Mutiara didn’t seem to mind. 

She didn’t smile, nor did she greet her on the way in. She simply took one look at her old-fashioned blue blazer, unmatching jeans, and the untamed curls on top of her head, and sighed. 

“Saya cuma ada waktu lima belas menit,” Mutiara said before Wulan could even begin an obligatory introduction. “Make your questions count. I have a flight to LA in four hours.”

“Savage x Fenty, ya?” Wulan forced a polite smile, half-grateful that she’d looked up the latest fashion-related news about her last night. The other half just wanted to punch her in the face. Long legs with no manners. 

“TBA,” Jenar said curtly.

Wulan blinked. “Um,” she flipped through her notebook, playing the part of a bumbling, nervous reporter. “Mbak—Mbak Jenar sudah berapa lama sama Bapak?”

“Sejak kecil.”

“Umur berapa ya, tepatnya?”

“Lupa.”

Wulan had to admit that she was taken aback. Jenar was such a shock to her senses, after dealing with genuine Sancaka. No matter—she’d talked with dubious Parliament members who wouldn’t stop calling her _ sayang _. If Jenar was going to be stubborn, Wulan was going to take catch her off-guard.

Wulan asked, “Apa memori paling menyenangkan sama Bapak?”

“Banyak.”

“Memori paling tidak menyenangkan?”

“Tidak ada.”

“Bapak pernah marah?”

“Tidak.”

“Apa motivasi menjadi model?”

“Karena suka.”

“Dan karena ditugaskan di sini?”

“Iya.” Too late, Jenar realized her mistake, but Wulan already latched onto it.

“Tugas bagaimana ya, maksudnya?” 

Impressively, Jenar still appeared cold and untouchable, even as she defied the question, “Ya nggak gimana-gimana. Bapak tahu saya suka _ modelling _, jadi dia membantu saya jadi model.”

“Caranya berbakti dengan Bapak, begitu ya?” 

“Kurang lebih.”

“Kata-kata itu selalu muncul,” Wulan said, “Bapak, sama anak-anaknya, selalu bilang kalau beliau mau anak-anaknya berbakti sama beliau. Saudara Mbak, Sancaka, kemarin juga bilang hal yang sama. Apakah kebaktian itu suatu tema yang besar di keluarga Mbak?”

Jenar’s eyes were a piercing chocolate. Wulan didn’t deter under her gaze. “Siapa Bapak yang tidak ingin anaknya berbakti pada dia?”

Wulan shrugged. “Sancaka pun juga bilang kalau dia di-’tugas’-kan, untuk kerja di WijayaTech. Kalau berbaktinya sampai menurut tugas masing-masing, saya jadi ingin tahu. Tugas macam apa saja yang diberikan Bapak?” Jenar said nothing. Wulan kept pushing, “Bagaimana jika tugasnya tidak dikerjakan?”

“Bapak adalah orang paling baik yang pernah saya temui dalam hidup saya,” Jenar cut in, the set of her mouth tense. “Bapak bukan orang tua angkat saya yang pertama. Orang tua asli saya membuang saya ke panti asuhan. Lalu ada pasangan muda yang mau mengadopsi sayang—kata mereka, sayang, anak secantik saya ditinggalkan di panti asuhan.” Jenar’s eyes were no longer stoic; they held within them rage that Wulan was all to familiar with. Her mother had, too, given her up to the Wijayas, if perhaps under different circumstances than Jenar. “Kemudian, mereka punya anak. Kembar. Sama cantiknya. Saya kemudian dibuang lagi oleh mereka.”

“Bapak kemudian menemukan Mbak,” Wulan said.

“Bapak adalah orang pertama yang melihat saya lebih dari sekadar wajah yang cantik,” Jenar said, her fists clenched. “Bahkan Bapak awalnya tidak ingin saya menjadi model. Takut nanti saya diperlakukan cuma sebagai wajah dan badan. Tapi dia tetap menyekolahkan saya, diberi modal untuk tinggal di Roma, Paris, agar bisa menjadi model kelas dunia. Agar bisa membantu membuka jalan pagi model-model lainnya dari Asia Tenggara.” _ Yes, but you’re still half-white, _ Wulan didn’t say. “Media-media seperti kalian hanya bisa melihat lukanya Bapak. Kalian tidak bisa percaya bahwa Bapak _ sayang _dengan saya, dengan semua anak-anaknya.”

_ Yes, but at what cost? What happened to your brother who disappeared? _

Jenar said, “Salah kah Bapak meminta kebaktian dari kami?”

“Tidak. Tidak salah sama sekali,” Wulan told her.

From behind the make-up desks, the photographer called out to Jenar. The stunning girl didn’t reply, still looking at Wulan like she had more scathing things to say, but Wulan’s timer went off, signaling the end of their fifteen minutes. With a huff, and without saying goodbye, Jenar stood up and left, striding away from still-sitting-down Wulan like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

No matter; Wulan got the confirmation that she needed. 

Pulling out her phone, she texted Nani.

❌❌❌❌  
  
**Hari ini** 09:47 WIB  
baru kelar wawancara jenar  


cctvnya udah aman?  


uhh bapaknya belum ada, i'll ask for it later  
Baru selesai dari admin tapi. Ada beberapa dokumen yang aku temui soal riwayat bisnis Wijaya dan Pengkor.  
Go over it later?  
bsk aja gmn, biar sekalian sm cctv jg  


oh oke

Wulan slipped her phone back in her pocket, sweeping one last glance over the on-going photoshoot. Jenar looked unbothered, like she hadn’t just had what was close to be an emotional outburst in the textbook of monosyllabic people just minutes before, still posing for the cameras like the supermodel that she was. 

Wulan stood up, feeling more determined than ever. Two interviews down; one more to go. She checked the names that Pengkor sent her—Adi Sulaiman. She was going to make it worth her while.

* * *

“Rekaman… hari Minggu?” 

Nani Wijaya smiled at the very confused look of the man before her. “Iya, pak, yang malemnya, yang waktu acara kemarin.” She said, kindly. “Boleh nggak, saya lihat? Sama temen saya juga.” 

"Si eneng teh beneran minta masuk ke ruang si-si-ti-pi cuma buat liat rekaman?" asked the weary security--the name 'Agung' sewed on his shirt--as if he was trying to make sure.

"Iya, Pak," Nani replied, patiently. "Besok, kok, bukan hari ini; boleh kan?" 

Pak Agung's eyebrows were furrowed, "Kenapa atuh neng? Ada yang ilang, mereun?" He asked, and Nani could detect slight fear in his voice at the prospect of the Wijaya Family losing something in their heavily guarded office. _ Understandable, _ Nani sighed, _ Kayak Mom gak hobi mecatin orang for the tiniest mistake that they made, aja. _

"Nggak kok Pak, saya nggak kehilangan apa-apa," she quickly assured him. "Cuma mau… ngecek sesuatu aja." 

"Ngecek naon, ai teh? Bapak wae yang ngecek atuh lah, si eneng kagak usah repot," Pak Agung insisted, though Nani could see the visible relief on his face once she confirmed he didn't do anything wrong. 

"Nggak apa Pak, mending saya aja langsung, yang mau dicek rada… sensitif soalnya." Nani drawled the last part, internally wincing because _ sensitive? Really? Now I sound like I have an accidental CCTV sex-tape I gotta delete. _

Pak Agung eyed the heiress with blatant confusion, and Nani merely plastered her biggest smile at him. But then his smile slowly bloomed--albeit quite warily--and he sighed. "Yaudah, neng," he said, nodding. “Nanti besok kabarin Bapak aja, biar bapak bukain ruangannya.” 

Nani’s smile brightened at the resigned affirmation, and she instinctively jumped to hug the old man, “Makasih Pak Agung!” She said, genuinely joyful, earning a surprised look from the security’s face. 

“Eeh, sama-sama,” replied the old man, perhaps too shocked to return the embrace. Although, when Nani finally released the hug, feeling quite sheepish at her graceless reaction, she saw the old man giving her a kind smile. “Bapak juga gak repot kok neng, bukain ruangan sama nyiapin rekaman doang.” 

Nani grinned at him, “Bapak bantuin gitu aja saya udah seneng banget,” She told him, softly. “Yaudah ya Pak, sekali lagi makasih.” She straightened the strap of her bag as she spoke, indicating her leave.

Pak Agung merely chuckled, nodding. “Iya, neng,” he replied, “Si eneng teh mending sekarang pulang, mumpung masih agak rame.” He waved a hand at the night sky, and Nani could her the concern he didn’t say out loud. “Yang hati-hati ya neng, pulangnya.” 

The genuinity in his words made her feel _ touched, _ and it felt strangely _ warm _to have someone she only knew in brief to be genuinely concerned about her safety. “Makasih, Pak Agung,” seemed to be the only thing she could say to him, but the man gave her a soft pat on her back, one reminded Nani of her long-deceased maternal grandmother, and an understanding smile. 

She whistled the whole way down to the basement, as she entered her brand new Lexus and started the engine. She wasn’t supposed to drive so soon after the incident, but she was _ itching _to get back behind the wheel, and the police would rather stop attacking protesting civilians with water cannon than arrest a Wijaya, so she knew she was safe. The privilege left a slight guilt as she drove her car away from the parking lot and into the street--she knew full well that it was one obtained through chronic blackmail and generational bribery directed at the criminal justice system--but she learned to numb herself from these things she couldn’t change.

(_ Just like how you learned to numb yourself back when you were younger, and your parents beat the crap out of Wulan when she wasn’t their poster-perfect adoptee?) _

Nani shook her head, biting her lower lip. Wulan--against her better judgement--had extended a new olive branch, and even if it was just to get to the bottom of a politician’s murky death, Nani would take these crumbs any day, if it meant repairing her relationship with Wulan. 

She picked her phone, texting Wulan she’d obtained the permission and they could meet up at Wijaya Industries tower tomorrow to check the records. Nani asked if she could come over to Wulan’s loft earlier, but Wulan had declined--which Nani understood, completely; just because they were working and talking again didn’t mean that everything between them was suddenly fine and dandy. 

Really, Nani get that, despite the growing ache in her chest. 

Instead, she was now taking the pathways leading her to this very new, very hip restaurant. Since their lunch yesterday was dramatically cancelled because Cantika had a surprise surgery, the doctor had promised her to take her there for dinner, today, as an apology for ditching at the last minute. Nani did _ not _mind one bit; so long as she could spend her time in Cantika’s very alluring company, she would be down anytime. 

Nani blasted her speakers, jamming along Kehlani’s new song, which was ironically _ her _ and _ not her _at the same time. She ignored the random ringing in her ears as she slowed down to turn at the road less taken, focusing instead on her little fantasies of Cantika, tired but smiling as she told her about her day, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, maybe even reach out to hold Nani’s hand across the table…

How had it been only two days and she was already making fan-fiction out of their interactions? 

Nani snorted at herself, then frowned when the ringing just--continued. She lightly hit her ears, trying to get the ringing to stop, thinking it was perhaps residual rogue water from her swim this morning. Kehlani was singing ‘_ cause I’ve already got good things for me, I already got everything I need,’ _and Nani sang with her, mindless that her voice is tone-deaf and tuneless. 

“The best things in life, are already mine--” 

“_ Tolong!” _

Nani halted, narrowing her eyes. It was faint--murky and chopped, like a static radio transmission, but it was _ there, _tapping her eardrums incessantly, alongside the persistent ringing. 

A cry for help. 

But it was nearly inaudible, so _ surely--? _

“Tolong saya, _ tolong _!”

“Heh, bego, nggak usah teriak-teriak, nggak akan ada yang nolong lo disini!” 

Nani was thankful the road was empty, because holy hell if she didn’t hit her brakes suddenly, right in the middle of the street. She breathed through her nose, closing her eyes to _ focus. _ The voices were clearer now--a woman; desperate and afraid. And some men--violent, cruel, and _ vile. _

She immediately sidelined the car and parked it there, hand unfastening her seatbelt and reaching to open the door, but she--she _ hesitated, _glancing at Cantika’s opened chat on her phone, laying innocently at the shotgun seat.

_ There were still visible pedestrians passing around, surely several bystanders would--? _

“Mau siapa duluan, nih?”

“Hompimpa dulu apa, biar adil?” 

“_ Ngh! Nnngh!” _

The woman’s voice now muffled, like she her mouth was being silenced, and something--something _ twisted _in Nani’s chest. She quickly opened the door, strategically covering her nose and mouth with a mask as she walked out of her car, looking around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice. 

“_ Dewi Sri,” _She called, as she tuned into the heart-wrenching cries, running to the southside near a dead-end alleyway. And true to her instincts, there she found them--a woman, gagged and tied up, and about five men, surrounding her with wild looks on their eyes. 

Nani was _ glad _ that they hadn’t seemed to do anything grave yet--and _ pissed _ that of all times, they chose to commit crimes right when she was _ about to have a goddamn date. _“Hey!” Nani yelled, her voice only slightly muffled by the mask. 

The five men turned around, and Nani could see them narrowing their eyes, “Sapa lo?” Asked one of the men, walking at her direction with a swaggering step, as if trying to establish his dominance. Nani thought it made him look like a fucking duck. 

“Kalo cari lawan, yang seimbang,” Said Nani, challengingly, one hand reaching her neck, where Sri Asih’s _ selendang _usually hang, fully ready to whip them sideways--

Only to realize that it wasn’t _ there. _

“Alah, cewe aja belagu!” Said another man, who prompted laughter from his merry villainous fellow, “Kepung aja--liat dia masih ngesok nggak kalo udah digagahin!” 

It took Nani an embarrassingly _ long _ time to realize she hadn’t changed into her superhero alter ego, and--and that she had challenged a bunch of thugs, who were approaching her in _ rapid velocity. _

“_ Dewi Sri!” _ Nani yelled again, as she narrowly escaped a punch from one of the men, the sharp sides of his _ akik _ ring grazing her cheekbone, leaving a burning sensation. Nani jumped to her side, ducking from another man’s fist--only to find a foot kicking her torso, full force, staggering her. She groaned, clutching her side, because without the Goddess’ powers running through her veins, the impact was fucking _ painful. _

_ Fuck, where’s Dewi Sri?! _

She stood up again, ignoring her hurting body, and charged again, running headfirst to the bunch of men--and _ body-slammed _ them _ , _with a force that was enough to send them stumbling backwards, but not enough to knock any of them down. She observed them--five against one, hardly a fair match. But she’d picked this battle; she wasn’t about to ditch it now.

The victim in the background looked at her, helplessly and fearful, and Nani looked at her intently. _ Nggak apa, _ she tried to convey the words into her eyes, _ aku bisa kok, ngalahin mereka, we just gotta wait for this ancient Goddess-- _

“Cewek bajingan!” She heard an angry cry, and Nani whipped her head to see one of the man raising a knife, charging at her with the speed of a bull. Nani yelped, lowering her upper body out of instinct barely in time--she could feel the sharp edges tearing her white suit, cutting her upper arm. She hissed and turned to see scarlet slowly seeping around the fabric. 

“Dewi Sri!” 

_ Nothing _happened. 

“Gak ada dewa-dewi yang bisa nyelametin lo, Goblok!” Yelled one man, and if their looks were menacing before, they were _ feral _ now, like they intended to maim her--to _ kill her. _

She clutched the wounded arm, pained and angered, turning her head sharply at the above sky. Goddess or not, she _ needed _ to win if she wanted the victim--and _ herself-- _ to survive. Nani could see the rest of the men, following their friends to charge her at the same time, and forced herself to _ think. _

The knife wielder tried to strike again, but this time Nani wasn’t relying on the Goddess--no, instead she reached her hand to scratch his face, letting her sharp, acrylic nails to imprint themselves at the perimeters of his eyes, and _ squeezed _ the orb out of his skull _ . _

“_ Anjing!” _Yelled the man, staggering back, clutching his bleeding face as Nani retracted her hand--now with a fresh new eyeball on her grip--only to receive a punch at her blind spot, right at the back of her head, where she glanced to see another man looking at her maliciously. 

She looked at her heels--Louboutin, six inches, needle heels--they would do. 

Nani swung one leg backwards, pin-pointing her foothold at her heel, kicking the man with the pointy appendage of the shoe, earning a sharp groan. The hit made her dizzy, and her stance swayed, lightly, but she could _ not, _ for the love of God, fail _ now. _

Grabbing her pumps to her hand, she gripped it tight and stabbed it right through another man’s shoulder--and then gained a whack at her back, from a seemingly dense log. The man with Louboutin on his shoulders wailed, but so did Nani, as she staggered, trying to put a distance between herself and the thugs. 

“Dewi Sri!” She gulped, desperate, as she shed her blood-stained white blazer, “Kulo nyuwun dimateng panjenengan--”[1]

“Lonte bajingan!” Another men surged forward, and Nani used the outfit in her hand to cover herself from the attack, stretching the fabric to prevent the punch from getting into her, before wrapping the thug’s arm to his body with it. Nani recalled the self-defense moves she was forced to take in her early teen years, as she decked kicks and punches, making do with her nails and heels, her ears ringing _ madly. _

“Dewi Sri,” Nani was _ afraid, _ now, when she received her nth punch and the Goddess was stubbornly absent, her acrylic nails raking these men’s skin, making a lined-up wound at their arms, “Dewi Sri, kulo nyuwun panulungan--”[2] She groaned when she felt a sharp _ something _ jabbing her gut, and it took her a split second to realize that it was a _ knife, _ searing through her skin, pricking her insides. She turned at the attacker, who looked at her murderously, and leaped; sinking her teeth to where his neck and shoulders met, and biting _ hard _while kneeing him on his balls. 

“Babi, bangsat, _ anjing--” _

“_ Dewi Sri!” _Nani was practically screaming now, when one of the man managed to pull her hair and drag her away from her opponent. “Dewi--”

_“Oh? Dadi nek kowe sing butuh, aku kudu tekan, ngono?”_ [3]

Nani blinked, and suddenly she was in the lands of clouds and serenity, back when she first _ began, _with the regal goddess descending from above, arms extended with a challenging look on her face. 

“Dewi Sri!” 

“Opo’o, nyelak-nyeluk saiki?”[4] Said Dewi Sri, raising an eyebrow. She looked at her intently, and Nani felt _ judged._ “Rumangsa-ku, wingi ‘we ora gelem nulungi wong kangelan, iyo to?”[5]

Nani narrowed her eyes, confusion addling her brain. _ Yesterday? When did she not want to help-- _

Realization dawned on her.

_ Dirga. _

“Kulo sanes mboten purun!”[6] Nani protested, stomping her feet. “Panjenengan sing mboten matur kalih kulo ingkang wonten tiyang sing butuh ditulungaken!”[7]

Dewi Sri clicked her tongue, "Cah Ayu, aku ket wingi wis kondo nang awakmu,”[8] She said, impatiently, “kowe sing ra gelem _ ngrungokno.”_[9]

Nani narrowed her eyes, confusion addling her brain. She racked her memories of the party, trying to replay her experience there; it was a blur, most of the time, with hazes about her plastic interaction with the Board of directors and her rather unpleasant meeting with Sancaka taking the back seat, for it all pale in comparison to her desperate attempt for a conversation with Wulan--the whole time, she didn't feel the need to focus on anything out of the ordinary, didn't hear any cries, or plea, or _ desperation. _

“Kapan--?”

She remembered earlier times in her life, way before adulthood, before high-school, when listening to Dewi Sri’s warnings was as easy as listening to bird chirps in early morning. None of her words came easily now, like their connections were cracked, _ broken. _

“Hmph,” Dewi Sri snorted, “Ngerti nek dikandani ae ora, yaopo iso dadi panulung rakyat?”[10] She said, turning her back from Nani and walked away, making the knots in Nani’s gut tightening. “Wis pirang taun, kowe ki dadi Sri Asih, kok isih ngene wae to nduk, nduk?” [11]

The disappointment in Dewi Sri’s tone was obvious, and it blew a punch onto Nani’s chest, harder than the ones she received by the thugs, combined. Because Dewi Sri called her insecurities right in front of her face; that she wasn’t enough of a hero, that somehow, there was something in her that _ prevented _her from being a better Goddess Incarnate. 

“Rumangsanipun panjenengan, kulo mboten purun dadi panulung sing pantes?”[12] Nani asked, hurt lacing her words. “Kulo mboten purun sinau, mboten purun usaha, ngeten?”[13]

Dewi Sri sighed, “Kowe sing ngomong, lho, yo, guduk aku.”[14] She said, turning her head at Nani with a very tired, very worn eyes. Nani remembered, as she was running away from her fight with the mysterious lightning man--the _ Bocah Gledek, _as she dubbed him in her brain--she begged in the alleyway, asking the Goddess what her sins were, for her to be ignored this far. 

She repeated the words in front of Dewi Sri’s face. 

“Duso nopo kulo, Dewi?”[15] She whispered, “Duso nopo kulo, nganti panjenengan saget matur kulo mboten wonten usaha?”[16]

“Nani--” 

“Kulo nyuwun panulungan, anging panjenengan mboten mirso,”[17] Nani’s voice was shaking now, “Kulo nimbali panjenengan, anging panjenengan mboten dugi,”[18] She was defiant, and angry, and so, _ so tired, _ “niki sing mboten purun nulungi niku kulo, utawi _ panjenengan?”_[19]

_ “Nani!” _

The snap in Dewi Sri’s tone echoed throughout the vast space, booming like thunder. Nani jumped in surprise at the volume--and the sharp reprimand that came along with it. “Jangan kamu pernah bilang bahwa saya tidak _ mau _ menolong rakyat.” Said Dewi Sri, her voice jagged and scathy, “Kamu lupa, saya rela _ mati _agar orang-orang di kepulauan ini bisa hidup sejahtera?” 

Taken aback, Nani was rained by immense guilt and regret at her baseless accusation, for _ of course _ Dewi Sri wanted to help--why would she establish a line of heroine throughout generations if she didn't _ want _to aid these people?

So it was most probably _ her. _

It was definitely _ her. _

“Kalau ada di antara kita yang belum bisa _ nyambung _ sama rakyatnya, _ nduk, _ itu _ kamu.” _Dewi Sri’s words jabbed her chest, prickling her tired heart, and Nani lowered her gaze, shame and doubt filling her system. 

She was transported back in the days of her middle school, when her friends said that she was _ bule, _not Indonesian, because of her mixed heritage--of how she got better treatments in school because of her half-white status and ran with it, halfway discarding her Javanese heritage in favor of the compliments people would attribute to her caucasian blood; 

_ ya ampun, kulit kamu putih banget, mata kamu terang banget; _

_ pasti kamu tuh perbaikan keturunan, biar nggak dekil kayak saudara angkatmu itu; _

_ Wah, fasih banget ngomong bahasa inggris, nggak ada logatnya lagi! _

Nani recalled the days when she would sometimes distance herself from Wulan, even as the girl cried for help, jeered and targeted from the bullies in their school, because Wulan was accented and tanned and people would call her _ kampungan _ with as much disdain as possible in their tone, like their heritage was a bad thing, like it was nothing to be proud about. Recalled the times she watched disappointment growing in her grandmother’s eyes as she spoke to her in butchered Indonesian, and couldn’t even reply at her with kromo inggil because she _ refused _ to use it, up to the point where she _ forgot how. _The memory was vivid now, dancing in her head like a clear rewind she couldn’t forget despite her desperate attempts to shove it away. 

“Apa karena saya kurang Jawa?” 

She looked up to see Dewi Sri tilting her head in confusion. 

“Apa saya ndak bisa _ nyambung _sama rakyat,” Nani drawled, slowly, hesitantly, “Karena saya tidak cukup Indonesia?” 

Dewi Sri now only look resigned, like she was _disappointed, _and sort of offended_. _And Nani didn’t like that--she wanted _reassurance; _not the look of regret clearly evident in the looks of the Goddess’ face. “Kamu sendiri, Nduk, yang memisahkan diri dari rakyat.” Dewi Sri told her, voice akin with weariness. 

Dewi Sri’s words felt like an affirmation to Nani’s unspoken anxiety--that this _ was _ her fault, that she was responsible for the disconnect with her responsibility, that her _ heritage, _ her _ background, _was the one that caused it. 

“Saya milih Sri Asih di tiap-tiap generasi dengan kehati-hatian,” Said Dewi Sri, sadly, “Dan baru kali ini--baru kali ini, saya melihat Sri Asih yang tidak jadi bagian dari rakyatnya sendiri.” 

The blow was low, and sharp, and Nani took a sharp inhale of breath because it _ hurts, _to be called out like this. “Saya--” 

She halted, pausing, for _ what _ could she ever say? She _ rejected _ these things first--her culture’s reciprocation was only natural _ . _ But it still didn’t feel _ fair-- _ for she didn’t ask to be born half-white, didn’t ask to have more international influence compared to local exposure, didn’t ask to be born as _ Nani Wijaya, _and all the complications that came along with it. 

Dewi Sri waved a hand, exhaling tiredly. “Sudah.” She said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Ndak ada gunanya bahas ini sekarang--kita punya rakyat yang harus diselamatkan.” She snapped her fingers, and before Nani could even start asking anything, she was transported back into the dark alleyway--

Where a log of wood is rapidly approaching her face. 

She ducked, reflexively shooting a hand to punch the log away, hoping that her weakened fist will do, and then she heard a loud _ crack, _ like a branch snapping to two, and Nani looked up to see the blunt object had been _ broken, _earning shocked looks from the looks of the thugs’ faces. 

Nani could feel them now; the crackle of raw power, filling her veins, enhancing her strength. But now, instead of the usual giddiness, the feeling was void, sinking down at the pit of her stomach. 

The words of Dewi Sri echoed through her head; _ baru kali ini, saya melihat Sri Asih yang tidak jadi bagian dari rakyatnya sendiri. _

She bit her lower lip, and shot her _ selendang _, trapping one of the thugs’ on his feet with the fabric, throwing him out effortlessly. The rest of the men, which was holding her, keeping her still, was elbowed on their torso, kicked with the still-Louboutin-clad feet, and head-butted to their necks, sending them flying to three different directions. 

Nani heaved, fist furling and unfurling, as she took of the Louboutin and raised it high, just like her mother used to when she was a child and being difficult. “Yang mendekat, saya tusuk pakai hak sepatu saya,” She threatened, nudging her head to her side, where the man that was her first shoe-victim laid on the ground, groaning weakly, “Mau kalian, jadi kayak dia?”

The remaining men exchanged wary looks, before bolting away, limping and groaning as they did so. 

Nani watched them leave and only after they disappeared did she start letting herself feel the pain, which--_ ouch. _ Clearly not as bad as the fight with Bocah Gledek the other day, but it still pained her enough to blur her sight and dizzy her head. She also felt like the wounds didn’t heal as fast as they usually were, and she--well, she _ wondered. _

_ Kalau ada di antara kita yang belum bisa nyambung sama rakyatnya, nduk, itu kamu. _

The woman--the victim--was crying when Nani finally reached her, sloppy hands trying to untie the makeshift knots binding her limbs. “Mbak,” Nani smiled, tiredly, when she unlatched the gag on the Woman’s mouth, “Mbak nggak apa--?”

She was greeted with a fierce hug from the woman, who sobbed right to her shoulder, her tears seeping through the cuts on Nani’s arm. Nani winced when the sudden movement took a toll on the stab wound in her gut, but she moved a hand to embrace the woman back, soothing her. 

“Makasih mbak,” Said the woman, her voice chortled and muffled. “Makasih banyak--”

“Iya, nggak apa,” Nani replied, guilt seeping through her veins because she _ didn’t _ deserve this; not with her hesitation to help earlier, or her incompetence at the fight. She didn’t deserve her _ gratitude, _ because she was barely a fighter, let alone a _ hero. _But she swallowed the remorse, instead focusing on the woman sobbing on her embrace as she helped her up, shouldering her hand to support her shaky legs. The weight pained her entire bruised, banged up body, and Nani grunted, but she would be damned if she didn’t suck it up and go. 

She originally wanted to just head back to her car so she could immediately drive the shaken woman to the nearest Puskesmas, but then her peripheral caught sight of the Louboutin-clad man, still whimpering on the pavements near the trash can, and she halted. 

“Mbak, tunggu sini, ya.” Nani said, signaling the woman to _ wait. _She limped her way to the man, lowering herself down at him and inwardly winced at the pooling blood on the ground and lodged shoe-heels on his shoulder. “Mas,” She called, coldly, drawing his hazy attention to her. 

He turned, eyes pained and unfocused, and at some small crevices of her mind, Nani felt _ bad _for inflicting so much pain, but not bad enough to not do it again, should she ever needed to. “Kenapa anda ganggu perempuan itu?” She asked, coldly, eyes piercing through him. 

“Bukan--dia--” Chortled the man in jagged agony, “Saya--cuma disuruh--” 

Narrowing her eyes, Nani lowered her head, letting her unruly strands fall to gravity. “Anda disuruh orang buat nyakitin perempuan nggak berdosa?” She said, in angered disbelief, because was that how the world treat its female citizens? like a bounty target with their names pinned on a roulette, waiting for their turn to be assaulted--

“Nggak--_ bukan--” _ He was choking, now, and Nani could see he was struggling to find pain, “‘suruh sama-- _ bapak-- _buat ngetes--” he coughed, and there were blood spitting out of his mouth now, and Nani yelped in surprise when he rolled his eyes backwards, passing out. 

“Mas?” Nani gingerly said, lightly tapping the joint, but he was as limp as a boiled noodle, his pulse-point faint, and it was clear that for him, the conversation was over. 

Nani dialled 112, telling them where her locations were, and tipped it as anonymous. She wanted to wait for the police to show up, making sure that the man was well-taken care of--but she couldn’t jeopardize the already delicate balance that was her situation, so she merely hoped that the receiving lady was right and discharge would indeed come along in under five minutes. She then led the woman to her car and drove her to the nearest medical assistance, which thankfully was just under quite a short distance. 

The whole way, her mind kept switching between her ominous conversation with Dewi Sri and the chortling man on the background. He said he was sent there, for a test.

But what test would require assaulting a woman and then fighting another? 

She checked on the watch on her phone afterwards--two hours late to her supposed date, and the restaurant would’ve been closed at this point. Nani sighed, frustrated. She instinctively ran a hand through her hair, then yelped when the graze made itself prominent, giving her a sharp pain from the sudden movement. She watched her body--littered with cuts and bruises, even a split lip. There was a bump at the back of her head, which was prominent if one wanted to intently look.

Pressing her lips tight, Nani concluded that she _ couldn’t _go home looking like this. 

She sighed, resigned, as she picked up her phone, dialing the number she knew she could trust in situations like this. 

“_ Well, I thought you were never going to call.” _

“Cantika,” Said Nani, _ tired _ and _ spent. _

_ “Hello to you too, Nani. Quick question; is it your hobby to ghost someone, or--?” _

“Aku--aku minta _ maaf.” _ And now Nani couldn’t help it; she sounded desperate and _ sad, “ _Aku--aku--” She choked on her words, trying to convey her emotions but letting too much out, making her trip on her sentences, preventing her from being coherent.

There was a soft gasp from Cantika’s side, and Nani wanted to cry. “_ Hey,” _ Said Cantika, softly, “ _ Kamu nggak apa? Ada apa, Nani--?” _

But Nani only whimpered, her tears rolling down and stinging the cuts marring her face, choked up on the pent-up frustration and self-deprecation. “Aku--aku boleh--” She said, gulping for air to calm herself down, “Aku boleh ke tempatmu, nggak, sekarang?” 

_ “Sure, sure--aku udah balik, kok, dateng aja kesini, oke?” _

Nani mumbled an affirmative, and she hung up, gripping the steering wheel tightly. There were dried bloodstains imprinted on the wheel’s leather cover, and she shuddered. 

_ Kamu sendiri, Nduk, yang memisahkan diri dari rakyat. _

Dewi Sri had said it herself. 

It was her own fault that she wasn’t good enough to be a Sri Asih. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Dewi Sri, saya meminta kepada anda-.[return to text]  
2 Dewi Sri, saya mohon pertolongan-[return to text]  
3 Oh? Jadi kalau kamu yang memanggil, aku harus datang, begitu?[return to text]  
4 Kenapa, manggil-manggil?[return to text]  
5 Perasaanku, kemarin kamu tidak mau menolong orang yang kesusahan, iya kan?[return to text]  
6 Saya bukannya tidak mau! [return to text]  
7 Dewi yang tidak bilang ke saya kalau ada orang yang butuh pertolongan![return to text]  
8 Anak manis, aku sudah mencoba bilang padamu, [return to text]  
9 Kamu saja yang nggak mau mendengarkan[return to text]  
10 Kamu bahkan nggak sadar saat sedang diberi tahu; bagaimana kamu bisa jadi penolong rakyat? [return to text]  
11 Sudah berapa tahun kamu jadi Sri Asih, nak, kok masih begini-beini saja?[return to text]  
12 Menurut Dewi, saya tidak ingin menjadi penolong yang pantas?[return to text]  
13 [menurut dewi] saya tidak mau belajar dan usaha, begitu? [return to text]  
14 Kamu yang bilang lho, ya, bukan aku.[return to text]  
15 Dosa apa saya, Dewi?[return to text]  
16 Dosa apa saya, sampai Dewi bilang bahwa saya tidak mau usaha?[return to text]  
17 Saya memohon pertolongan, tapi Dewi tidak melihat, [return to text]  
18 Saya memanggil Dewi, tapi anda tidak datang,[return to text]  
19 Ini yang tidak mau menolong sebenarnya saya atau Dewi? [return to text]


	6. enem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Omong-omong,” Ghani’s voice echoed through the vast columns of the studio hall. “Ada acara apa, Mas San, ngumpulin Anak Bapak cabang Jakarta mendadak?” 
> 
> It was Jack who answered, “Minta capture the flag dia.” He stood up as well, shrugging, teasing in his eyes. “Maybe the lightning finally did make him nuts.” 
> 
> Desti involuntarily snorted, and even Jenar smiled a little. Cantika, meanwhile, merely exhaled heavily and rolled her eyes. 
> 
> “Sancaka dihajar sampai babak belur, yang ngehajar sesama dulur—” Adi sing-songed, with that slightly off-putting grin he usually sported.
> 
> _“Adi,”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YA ALLAH SEBULAN GAK NGUPLOAD SEPURANE IN ADVANCE Ana sedang kkn dan Nad sedang mendesain pabrique.... memang bala november alhamdulillah sudah mau berakhir
> 
> anyway enjoy !!!!!

“_ Ow!” _

Cantika flinched slightly, surprised at Nani’s sudden movements. “Hold _ still,” _She scolded her softly, narrowing her eyes in reprimand to Nani’s sheepish looks. “Nanti kalo banyak gerak, jahitannya bisa melenceng, harus diberedeli lagi.” She continued, Prickling the needle back to Nani’s skin, careful to inflict as little pain as possible. “Kamu mau, ngulang jahit lagi dari awal?”

Nani immediately shook her head, and Cantika could see childish fear reflecting in her eyes at the prospect of being subjected to another round of stitches. She sighed, then, huffing slightly. “Habis sakit, sih.” 

Rolling her eyes, Cantika couldn’t help but to feel affectionately exasperated. “Ya salah sendiri, hobi kok koleksi luka.” She spoke, finishing the final knot of the stitch, before dabbing the freshly tended wound in Nani’s abdomen with alcohol. “Kali ini kenapa, emangnya? Tabrakan lagi?”

For a split second, Cantika could see hesitation in Nani’s eyes, as she fidgeted nervously. The harsh lines in Cantika’s expectant face softened, as she set aside the tools on her bedside table. “Hey,” She said, looking down to match Nani’s eye level. “Whatever the cause — I won’t judge.” 

There was a tired look in Nani’s face as she looked up, and Cantika could see her vulnerability on full display, so unlike her charming, perfect darling persona the media had dubbed her to be. Cantika waited, nonetheless. After all, Nani had came to her at this ungodly hour, stumbling into her front door, barefoot, after parking her car rather haphazardly on the front lot (_ Cantika knew; she saw it from the building’s CCTV system she hijacked) _ begging for aide — and forgiveness. She must’ve _ trusted _her.

Way more than she should, probably; Cantika still silently shuddered at the thought of carrying the honest faith Nani had put in her bloodied hands. To trust someone as much in only one circumstantial interaction… 

If Cantika were to do the same, Bapak would have wrathed her for being stupid; for being _ naive. _

_ “Orang-orang itu bukan untuk dipercaya, Cantika.” _ she remembered Bapak telling her, quietly, sternly. _ “Untuk dibantu, atau dimanfaatkan, mungkin. Tapi tidak pernah untuk dipercaya.” _ And she understood, completely; had learned the hard way of how cruel and evil people could be when they earned her faith, how easy they were to twist it, to twist _ her. _

Yet right now, Cantika couldn’t help but to feel a _ warm _ inclination to do the same as Nani did to her; to unbridingly _ believe — _be freed of the distrust that kept on chipping parts of her heart. 

“Aku —” Nani’s voice shook Cantika out of her reverie, and she blinked, eyes re-focusing to Nani’s features. The heiress was sitting now, gingerly leaning to the bedpost as she eyed Cantika wearily. “Aku tadi habis nolongin cewek yang —” She took a deep breath, looking physically nauseous. “Yang hampir diperkosa.” 

Something cold dropped at the pit of Cantika’s gut, spreading like wildfire through her veins. Her had blindly grasped her bedsheet, tightening around it in an attempt to calm herself down. _ Perkosa, _Nani had said —

_ Cantika was nine when the casino owner shoved her into a room filled with white moustached men, stroking their beards in feral interest, staring at her like she was their prized prey — _

_ Twelve when she couldn’t even look at the male diplomatic staff aiding her, screaming in fear when his finger accidentally brushed her shoulders — _

_ Nineteen in med school, when her neighbor Ratih whispered in grieved fear of a man daring to shove her, pin her, touch her like she was an object to be owned, not a person of her own right — _

“Di mana?” Cantika asked, gritting her teeth. She weighed on letting Nani sleep, after this, then grab her stash of syringe and _ hunt. _It would be satisfying; their faces, contorting in pain; their body, trying to grasp blood and failing as the air Cantika injected reached the cleaves and columns of their heart; their eyes, widening in fear as they looked at her face one last time before inhaling their last breath. 

She took an oath, as a doctor; an oath to always save human lives, should she ever encounter them — no matter how heinous the circumstances, no matter how cruel the deeds they committed were. 

But for _ some _humans — death was a worthy punishment; a mercy, even. Bapak had taught her this himself, and she had yet to see this lesson refuted or proven faulty. 

“Blok M,” Nani said, voice small and distant. “Udah kabur, kok; ada satu tadi nyisa gara-gara aku tusuk sepatu hak—tapi udah aku panggilin ambulans juga. Paling diangkutnya ke RSPP." Nani sighed. "Ceweknya nggak apa — just very shaken.” She shook her head. “Aku tadi nganter dia ke puskesmas dulu, makanya lama.” Nani looked up, then, offering Cantika a weary, yet sheepish smile. “Maaf ya, jadinya aku _ bail _dari — janji kita.” 

Nani held herself off at the last second, but Cantika could hear her tongue touching the ceiling of her mouth, the letter ‘d’ that was then hastened, prevented from ever finishing the rest of the sequence. No matter — the unspoken _ date _ was well-noted anyway, ghosting at the back of Cantika’s mind, the only word she used to describe their cancelled dinner plans. “Nggak apa,” Cantika said, hand reaching Nani, resting on her folded thighs. “Yang penting si korban _ aman, _ dan kamu juga.” She told her, softly, “Dinner can be rescheduled; that girl’s safety _ couldn’t.” _

Truthfully, she wasn’t even mad; of course, there was a slight disappointment and annoyance when Nani failed to show up on time, but it all dissipated into worry when she called Cantika’s phone with wet, thick voice, choking on her own tears, seemingly distraught. All Cantika cared for now was Nani’s safety and wellbeing, dinner or not. 

There was a smile gracing Nani’s tired face, and she sighed, looking at Cantika with a look that could only be described as gratitude. “Thank you,” She said, genuinely, Her good hand covering Cantika’s hand that was over her thigh, thumb tracing patterns there. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

Cantika gripped their joined hands tighter for a split second, sending her wordless reassurance. “No need to rush,” She softly spoke, “We have all the time in the world.” 

Under the yellow light of her bedroom, Cantika could faintly see Nani’s blush, blooming a pretty scarlet on her cheeks. Cantika could feel warmth spreading her face as well, but she chose to silently ignore it, clearing her throat instead. “Anyway, um, diobatinnya sudah selesai,” She said, rather awkward and fumbling. “Better hit the road now — mumpung belum jam 12.” She’d assumed that there were _ so many _already looking for the heiress 

Hearing this, Nani’s smile faltered, and she narrowed her eyebrows. “Aku —” She paused, hesitant. “Aku boleh nggak… tidur sini dulu?” 

Cantika thought, _ oh. _

“Nggak akan dicariin?”

“Uh…” Nani squirmed, “Nggak, sih; aku tinggal telpon, bilang nginep rumah temen, beres,” She told her, words rushed and stacked together. “Tapi kalo kamu nggak mau nggak apa, sungguh! Sori banget, udah aku _ bail, _eh malem-malem malah ganggu —” 

“Aku —” Cantika almost yelped, cutting Nani mid-sentence, “nggak keberatan, kok.” She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The admission almost made her _ shy — _ God, how long had it been since she _ felt _like this? “Cuma kasurnya satu doang, but I, um, I can sleep on the floor, let you take the bed, easing those wounds to heal —”

“Jangan!” Nani now looked like she was in a comical panic, hand halfway shooting up, as if to prevent Cantika from moving any further. “Aku bisa tidur dibawah —”

“Heh, jangan, you’re still hurting —”

“Aku punya jin penjaga yang bisa nyembuhin lukaku overnight, whereas you have work early morning tomorrow —”

Both of them stopped, looking at each other in awkward intensity, before Cantika couldn’t help it; she snorted a repressed laughter. Nani soon followed, giggling with her clear, bell-like voice. “Kita ngapain, sih,” Nani said, in-between laughter. 

Cantika snickered, shaking her head. “The bed _ is _ big enough, you know.” She said, tentatively, “We can… you know, _ share.” _

The words sounded inconspicuous, hell, it was nearly _ scandalous, _ coming out Cantika’s mind; like she was suggesting more than just a plain, innocent slumber party. But then Nani nodded, her movement almost shy, and Cantika felt _ flutters _tickling her chest, faint and pleasant. “Kamu suka sisi yang mana?” asked Nani, her voice feathery soft. 

Cantika, whose sleepover experience consisted only of her siblings crashing into her place unannounced and taking whichever side they saw fit rather haphazardly, shrugged. “Mana aja boleh.” She said, voice braver now, more cheeky, “Kamu aja yang milih.” 

Nani hesitated for several seconds, unsure, “Yakin?” She said, “I mean, it’s your bed, aku gak enak —” 

“Santai,” Cantika reassured her, almost giggling at Nani’s flustering state. “Aku kebiasaan _ ngalah _sama adik-adikku — sisi mana aja bisa, kok.” 

There were still lingering wariness as Nani finally decided her side — left, apparently, but she settled almost immediately, snuggling to the pillow with the most adorable face. She kind of reminded Cantika of the kittens hiding in the _ pawon _of Bapak’s house — almost comically childish in their search for comfort and warmth. Cantika laid opposite to her, trying her best to gracefully fold her hands beneath her head. He observed Nani’s face, who looked as if she was contemplating on something. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Cantika asked her after several minutes of silence. Nani’s furrowed brows smoothened in surprise as she blinked, eyes refocusing onto Cantika’s face, almost sheepish when she realized that she was caught daydreaming.

“It’s something… ridiculous.” Said Nani, waving a hand, “Gak penting, sumpah.”

Cantika narrowed her eyes. It didn’t look like it _ wasn’t _important; with Nani’s face a mix of anxiety and anger before she called. But Nani was squirming, a sign of discomfort, and Cantika knew better not to push. 

She was an Anak Bapak, after all — and curiosity might not kill the cats, but it could kill _ them. _

So Cantika shrugged, letting it go. Instead, she observed Nani’s features, noting her dark lashes fluttering under the moonlight, her long hair spilling the pillow, and inwardly sighed at the almost _ ethereal _figure before her. 

_ God, Sappho was right. _

“Kenapa?” She could hear Nani asking when her sigh echoed the almost silent room. 

“Kamu cantik aja,” The response lurched from Cantika’s mouth before she could even _ think _ about it, much less _ consider; _ her realization came a tad too late, and her eyes widened when Nani’s eyes grew incredulously. “Eh, maksudku — cantik banget, as in cocok jadi model —” She made it worse. _ Why did she make it worse? _“Kayak adikku, model juga — cantiknya, maksudnya —” 

_ God, _ she wasn’t this _ flustered _in their first meeting. Then again, in their first meeting, Cantika was too busy trying to save Nani’s life with an array of makeshift surgery tools to admire her beauty. Plus, Nani was unconscious the whole time, unable to respond even if Cantika had expressed her observation. 

But then Nani laughed — clear, bell-like, almost mirthfully — and buried half her face to the pillow under her. If Cantika squinted, she was almost sure that there was a rosy blush blooming on her cheeks. 

“Makasih,” Nani said, her smile small but dazzling. But then she frowned, and Cantika was almost deathly afraid that she’d said something _ wrong. _ “Adikmu… yang cowok? Yang jadi _ wallpaper? _” Asked Nani, unsurely. “Aku mirip dia?”

Cantika blinked, confused for a split second before realizing that _ of course, _ Nani _ didn’t _ know her very complicated, very expanded family history. “That scowling rascal? Of course _ not.” _ She assured Nani immediately — her tone almost playful as she fondly recalled Sancaka’s face, which was constantly frowning as if he had continuous constipation badgering his digestive system. “He’s cute and all, but you’re more generous in your _ smiles.” _

Was this flirting? Was she _ flirting? _

“I was talking about my other sibling — a sister.” Cantika continued, and Jenar’s face came into her mind — so cold before others, yet so patient and soft for for her and _ Desti _ and them _ only. _ “Dia juga pelit senyum kalo lagi _ modelling _, tapi kalo udah di depanku, aduh, sumringah banget.” She said, “Kamu ngingetin aku sama dia, gitu.” 

Nani looked at her, now amused and intrigued. “Wah,” She said, “Kamu tiga bersaudara, berarti?” 

Cantika opened her mouth, then hesitated. _ Siblings, _ now that was — “...sodaraku banyak,” She said, tentatively, mind conjuring images of Sancaka, going at her room whenever he was injured; Jenar, sneaking her _ madu mongso _from the kitchen when Cantika’s tooth was hurting and Bapak had banned her from eating any form of sweets, no matter how natural; and Kanigara, talking to her with a butchered Indonesian, French still peppered here and there, weighing his accent so heavily that his words often garned narrowing eyes from their other, more local siblings —

_ Kanigara — _

“Kamu… dekat sama saudara-saudaramu?” inquired Nani, softly. 

Cantika tilted her head, thinking _ what a strange question. _ “Of course,” She said, because how else should siblings be? With the anak bapak bunch being societal rejects, there was nowhere else to turn, nowhere else to _ trust, _but one another. “Kita kan punyanya juga cuma satu sama lain, ya harus deket dong, biar kalo ada apa-apa bisa bantu.” She said, softly, “kan, sakitnya kakak adik kita, sakitnya kita juga.” 

Sancaka was the first thing that popped into her mind, young and raggedy, battered and bruised as he held his sobs from the _ capture the flag _ game. When Cantika opened her arms and Sancaka buried himself to it, that was the moment Cantika realized that she would do anything, _ anything, _ just to keep her siblings _ safe. _

There was a sliver of doubt when Nani continued inquiring her, "Even if… kalau kamu bantu mereka, kamu bisa kena marah, atau dihukum juga?"

Cantika opened her mouth, wanting to immediately affirm — but then she hesitated. Kanigara was the first thing popping into her mind; kind and quiet Kanigara, who came into her one night before _ that day — _

_ Kak Cantika, I have to go — _

_ Dek, listen to me; jangan jeopardize Bapak's order — _

_ But I can't just sit here and do nothing! Itu yang Kakak ajarkan ke aku; when we know someone is about to be unjustifiably wronged, we _ ** _save _ ** _ them! _

_ Ya tapi bukan dalam konteks kaya begini, dek! _

"Can?"

Blinking, Cantika felt herself slowly being dragged to reality, where Nani was expecting an answer. "I try my best." She said, "But all of us had our regrets, kan?"

_ Smokes rising out so high the TV frame couldn't display its entirety; they were watching from a screen but somehow Cantika could smell the _ ** _ashes_ ** _ — _

_ And then there was Sancaka, later on, choking on his own bile — there was Jenar, later on, sobbing under the bed in their room — _

_ Cantika has failed, failed, _ ** _failed _ ** _ her duty as Kakak — _

Nani looked at her like she just punched her, right on her gut. She looked away, fidgeting with her fingers, her movement almost _ guilty. _

“Hey,” Cantika pried her hands away, worried that they’d bleed from her self-pricking, especially considering how sharp Nani’s nails were. “Kenapa? Aku ada salah bicara?” 

Nani immediately shook her head, “Nggak, cuma… mikir aja.” 

“Mikir apa?” 

“Aku waktu kecil… anak tunggal.” She drawled her words, said it with a significant wariness that it piqued Cantika’s curiosity. Nani had said _ only child _like it was a half-lie, so Cantika waited — continued to stare at her. In the end, her prying gaze worked, and Nani squirmed in her position as she reluctantly continued, “tapi terus orang tuaku ngangkat anak juga, biar aku ada temennya.” 

It seemed like a normal fact — but the way Nani said it…

The Wijaya heiress sighed, hands lacing with one another, forming a clasp. “Makes me wonder,” she said, quietly, and Cantika had a feeling that it was addressed more to Nani herself than anyone else, “about our… relationship. That’s all.” 

Cantika looked at her, her gaze softening. Was Nani doubting her sisterhood because it wasn’t defined by the blood in their veins? “Saudaraku juga, kok,” Cantika responded, after a while, “Saudara angkat semua, maksudnya, nggak ada yang kandung.” She disclosed, her prying eyes continuously present — this was a really old tactic, one that had been taught to her even before Bapak arrived in her life; 

_ “Your job is to lure them to speak,” said Boss in a strong french accent, stroking his thick moustache, “tell them a personal information or two to lure them into a false sense of security.” _

_ Cantika was only 8, and she was so tired, tired, _ ** _tired, _ ** _ but Boss wouldn’t let her stop until she could fish out anything from her newest client; a pedophilic politician that kept on calling her ‘mon cherie’ with his grubby hands roaming — _

_ “Why?” Cantika was afraid, afraid, _ ** _afraid, _ ** _ and she just wanted to know why did he keep making her do this, why did he keep forcing her to _ ** _endure. _ **

_ “Because," he said, smirking. Cantika waited. _

_ He never continued. _

_ It took Cantika a long time that the sentence never needed a continuation — some things, Cantika learned, simply happened _ ** _because._ **

"Oh?" Nani's interest was piqued, "kamu… adopted?" 

Cantika nodded, giving her a silent affirmation. "Dulu aku nggak tinggal di Indo; ditinggal ibu kandungku di Paris karena gak berani bawa pulang anak haram ke desa. Baru waktu umur 12, diambil pengusaha, dijadiin anak — baru pindah." 

The memory was painful, in and of itself; Papá always talked about Mamán in such a positive light; _ she didn't have a choice, Mon Cherie; the people in her village is unforgiving, Mon bébé; she loves you with all her heart — _

_ Love, _ Cantika thought bitterly as she recalled her mother's silence as her husband yelled at her vile things, just when she arrived in front of their house in Temanggung after years and years of searching — _ gak pate'en aku ngewehi panggon gawe cah haram — _

Her mother had a funny way of showing _ love. _

There was something fleeting in Nani's eyes. It was as if she saw… kinship, in Cantika's presence. "Kamu blasteran juga?" She asked, almost half-hopeful. 

_ " _Wasn't it obvious?" Cantika asked back, raising an eyebrow. Nani stared at her inquisitively in return, shrugging her reply. She zoned out for a bit, Cantika realized, as she watched Nani's eyes growing in and out of focus. When she replied, she was rather sheepish.

"I didn't want to assume."

"Well, you not-assumed correctly." 

Nani smiled widely in return of the lame joke Cantika attempted, before her frown returned, deeper this time. She looked away, then, looking up to the ceilings, her lips pressed tight together. "Ini pertanyaan goblok, and I asked you so much already." She began, "but have you ever felt like you're… distant?" 

Cantika tilted her head curiously. "Distant gimana?" 

"Kayak… sama semua ini." Nani waved her hand around, vaguely. "Gak nyambung, gitu; sama bahasanya, budayanya—heck, bahkan orang-orangnya." She sighed, eyes furrowing helplessly. "I feel like I have this… barrier, with _ everything _. Like I'm not completely… accepted—in both sides."

Humming, Cantika nodded. "Iya, sih." She recalled her own experiences; being regarded as a lesser being due to her asian heritage in France, then worshipped like she was a pinnacle of perfection for her half-white blood here. "Emang kamu ngerasanya gimana?"

Nani exhaled heavily. "Like I always have to choose." She said, idly, "Dan setiap aku milih satu sisi, ternyata itu pilihan yang salah." 

"Maksudnya?"

"Gimana ya," Nani ruffled her hair, seemingly frustrated at the lack of articulation coming out of her mouth. "Rasanya aku nggak pernah _ cukup, _ gitu; buat bener-bener diterima." She said, "pasti aku bakal selalu dicap beda—mau konteksnya positif atau negatif, yang jelas aku bukan bagian dari _ mereka. _"

_ Ah. _

"Akhir-akhir ini, aku—banyak masalah." Nani sighed, quietly. "Dan kayaknya, akar masalahku ya… karena itu." She blew strands of her hair. "Karena aku terlalu _ beda _ until bisa dihitung jadi orang _ Indonesia." _

Cantika was curious to whose standard was Nani trying—and failing—to project. "Kata siapa?" 

Nani brushed it off, blowing a breath. "Ada, lah. Orang mayan penting gitu." She replied, her voice fragile and somewhat insecure. "Katanya aku terlalu jauh sama—sama realita yang ada, makanya aku selalu _ gagal _."

The bitterness in Nani's tone is palpable, as well as the sense of failure following it. Cantika's mind whirred, trying to decide Nani's vague sentences into a concrete information. _ Was it one of the company executives telling her that? Or maybe even a family member? _

She looked at Nani again, trying to map her out; the confused Wijaya princess, born and raised with all the wealth and privileges and yet seemingly none the direction on _ where _ to go—and what to _ do _. 

"Menurutku," said Cantika, after a while. "Jadi orang Indonesia… nggak ada hubungannya sama ras keturunan kita." She told her, softly. "Yang penting kita cukup sayang sama negeri ini, sama orang-orang sini, untuk benar-benar _ peduli." _She looked at Nani, her gaze innocently inquisitive as she continued;

"Pertanyaannya sekarang; apakah jauhnya kamu disebabkan sama persepsi orang soal kamu," she paused, "atau karena emang kamu sendiri yang _ ngejauh _ dari orang-orang?" 

Cantika seemed to hit a sore spot, there, as Nani's face was contorted involuntarily. The Wijaya heiress immediately feigned a yawn, acting like she was sleepy already. "Berat banget pertanyaannya, malem-malem." She tried to deflect by casting a light joke. 

"Lah, kamu yang mulai, kok." Cantika chimed, "so which one is it?"

But Nani had faked another yawn again, with a small mumble of "_ ngantuk" _muttered to her pillows, barely audible for Cantika to catch. "J'wabnya 'sok pagi aja ya."

"Besok pagi emang masih disini kamunya?"

"Ya kalo kamu bolehin, kenapa nggak?"

The cheekily nonchalant answer was a deflection, Cantika knew. Her question, most likely, would go unanswered when morning came.

And yet Cantika couldn't help but to feel her heart somersaulting at the concept of Nani Wijaya, _ staying _ for her.

Cantika exhaled in somewhat fond exasperation. Nani's fake-yawns infected her then, as she started noting how heavy her eyes were. "Yaudah," she said, yawning, snuggling closer to the bed—to _ her. _"Put a raincheck on that, will you?" 

Nani nodded, eyes already closing. "Mmhm," she mumbled. As Nani succumbed to sleep, Cantika felt her delicate fingers threading themselves into hers, as if silently asking for reassurance.

She looked so peaceful like this; soft and vulnerable. Cantika almost didn't have the heart to leave her.

But she knew she _ had _to.

Reluctantly, Cantika slipped out of the bed, disentangling their linked hands. She glanced at the clock; it was a little past midnight._ Just for a while _ , she told herself. _ Nani wouldn't even notice. _

The drive to RSPP was short, and the night-shift nurses didn't even bat an eye as Cantika blended in with her scrubs and her mask, feigning idle looks as she read the ambulance records.

She'd done this many times before, and _ yet _.

As the man before her chortled to death, his life supports disconnected without any warning, Cantika still felt the same glee and satisfaction as she did when she first began.

She traced the freshly stitched wound on his shoulder, feeling faintly proud that Nani managed to land this very creative blow. Nurses wouldn't check on him for a whole night, Cantika made sure of it. And even if they did, they'd chalk it up to system malfunction; for no underpaid medical personnel working in this cold hospital would spare a second glance at an anonymous criminal under their care.

_ It's what he deserved _, was the only thing Cantika allowed herself to think throughout her way home, reinstating herself back at Nani's side.

* * *

Wulan had thought that Adi Sulaeman would be an easy one; after the clipped Jenar, Wulan thought she’d have it easier. Adi was a quiet man, but coaxed with the right preambule, he’d talk—Wulan had seen his many interviews before. Get him comfortable with talking about music, his newest orchestra album, then Wulan would ask the difficult questions. 

She walked into their intended meeting with more confidence than she should have had, greeted by Adi’s assistant—Tono, that was his name—who looked like the last time he slept was about three years ago. “Mbak ntar jangan kaget ya,” Said the assistant, as he led her into the empty studio. “Pak Adi emang… _ gitu.” _

Wulan should have heeded his warnings. 

But instead, she stepped briskly into the room, where Adi Sulaeman was intently testing the strings of his violin—one note at a time. But even in his idle play, Wulan recognized the simplified melody. 

“_ Sugarplum Fairy _ya Mas?” She initiated a conversation, tilting her head and peering over to gain his attention. Adi stopped abruptly, looking up from his violin; his surprised face seemed to indicate that it was the first time he’d realized Wulan’s presence—and proximity. 

Instead of addressing her, though, he turned to his assistant, his voice coarse and jagged as he harshly asked him, “Siapa ini, Ton?” 

The assistant merely sighed deep and plastered a weary smile, not even putting an effort of looking fake-happy. “Janji jam 10 ‘pean, Mas. Yang mau wawancara itu lho, yang dari The Djakarta Times.” 

Adi was still narrowing his eyes, looking at Wulan with high suspicion. Wulan offered him a warm smile, trying to ease the very visible tension. “Saya yang mau wawancara Mas Adi soal Bapak panjenengan, Mas.” She said, “Buat segmen di koran kami—katanya Bapak kemarin sudah ngabari?” 

“Bapak?” There was a shift in his eyes, Wulan saw; surprise turned to surprise, then a sliver of fear, all in a split second before they were empty—numb and concealing. “_ Oh, _yang itu?”

“Uh..” Wulan blinked. Not sure what to make of it. “Iya?” 

Adi nodded, tilting his chin to show her where to sit. “_ Pinarak _, mbak.” he said, stoically. “Ton. Bikinin minum.” 

The Assistant resignedly nodded, giving Wulan a wary smile before exiting the place. Wulan turned to Adi, politely thanking him in that classic, oh-so-Javanese way of, “Wah, Mas, padahal nggak usah repot-repot…” 

Adi waved a hand, giving Wulan a dry smile—not as cold as Jenar’s, but far from Sancaka’s warmth, either. So far, he looked as normal as one goes—Wulan’s radar wasn’t tingling off, and she was armed with gently coaxing questions in order to steer him where she wanted him to be.

Wulan was _ ready. _

“Mau nulis soal apa sih, Mbak, emangnya?” asked Adi, “Sampai harus wawancara kita juga.” 

Threading her hand through her locks, Wulan pretended to check on her notes. “Ah, kita emang mau bikin biografi gitu sih, jadi kita ingin bisa mengulik semua aspek dalam hidup Pak Haedar, begitu.” She said, then carefully; “Termasuk bagaimana ia… membesarkan anak-anaknya.” 

Adi merely nodded, contemplative. “Saya yang pertama mbak wawancara?” 

“Nggak, mas; sebelumnya ada Mbak Jenar sama Mas Sancaka.” Wulan replied, “Mereka cerita masa kecilnya, begitu; bagaimana hidup mereka di bawah… didikan Bapak.” 

“Bilang apa aja mereka, emangnya?” 

It took several embarrassingly long seconds before Wulan finally realized that she was the one being interviewed. She blinked, surprised that that Adi could take charge like _ that. _“Uh, mereka bilang bapak baik sih—penyayang dan tegas. Tapi gambarannya agak kabur, makanya saya—” 

Her words were cut by a cackle—one that was unbridled and slightly _ bitter, _ even. “‘ _ Tegas’?” _He echoed her choice of word, snorting in-between laughter. “Yah—bisa sih, dibilang tegas.” he finally got over his bearings, but there was still a cold smirk over his face. 

Wulan blinked; so far, this interview was going _ nowhere _she predicted it would. But Wulan was nothing if she wasn’t adaptive. “Memang kalau menurut mas Adi,” she inquired, “harusnya gimana?” 

Adi stroked his chin. “Bapak itu Raja. Ucapannya titah.” He said, contemplatively. “Yang berani melawan, ya cuma orang gila.” He shook his head, his smile as wide as ever. 

Wulan blinked, retreating her posture just slightly to digest it all in. _ Raja; titah; _he had used these words, implying the awareness of having unimaginable power. “maksudnya… gimana ya mas?” She asked, carefully. “Bapak punya banyak kuasa, gitu? Atau bagaimana?” 

Adi merely shook his head, giving her a cheshire-cat-like smirk; “Atau bagaimana.” He answered, vaguely. 

“Saya--”

“Pak?”

Both heads whipped to see Tono, the assistant, coming in, bringing a tray containing two steaming cups. “Teh-nya, pak.” he said, placing the tray on the coffee table, handing the tea to Adi and Wulan each. 

Wulan smiled at him, but it was curt; she knew it wasn’t Tono’s fault to come just right when the conversation was getting interesting, but _ still. _

Adi himself had taken his steaming cup of tea and drank it, prompting Wulan to reluctantly do the same,eyeing him between them. The silence between them is deafening for her, and Wulan could see the intensity leaving Adi’s eyes, leftover emotions from his words fleeting away from him. Whatever moment she was chasing, it was gone now. 

But it didn’t mean she couldn’t create it again. 

She lowered down her drink, fingers tapping on the brink of the porcelain. “Mas Adi dari kecil… suka main musik kan ya?” She said, glancing up to him. 

Adi nodded, hand instinctively reaching his violin. “Saya main biola sejak umur 5; piano, 6.” He said, idly, caressing the instrument with tender affection. Wulan had an inclination that Adi had shown more care towards his violin than actual people. 

“Wah,” Wulan made a noise of appreciation. “Berarti sudah sangat fasih, ya mas?” She said, as she shifted in her seat. “Saya mendengarkan beberapa karya Mas Adi—rata-rata genrenya musik klasik, ya, yang dibuat.” She tilted her head, slightly, “Apakah ada alasan khusus kenapa musik klasik?” 

Snorting, Adi offered Wulan a wolfish smirk, “musik sekarang kayak kaleng rombeng; semua orang bisa membuatnya meskipun cuma berbekal tong sampah.” He rolled his eyes, “tidak ada lagi intrik melodi, integrasi nada yang mengandung cerita. Cuma dendang generik yang diulang tiap pekan.” And then he paused, before adding, “lagipula, bapak paling suka musik klasik. Jadi saya tumbuh mendengarkan gubahan musisi besar, begitu.” 

As an avid listener to pop songs, Wulan felt the jab from his words prickling her chest. She cleared her throat, focusing on the important bits that he gave away instead. “Jadi… apakah bapak yang menyuruh mas untuk belajar musik?” She asked again, “Atau itu inisiatif mas sendiri?” 

And there it was again; the unbridled laughter, the one that threw Wulan off the guards. “Di keluarga saya, ndak ada yang namanya ‘keinginan sendiri,’” his fingers were raised, making signs in the air. “Semua rencana, semua utusan, semua _ tugas.” _

There it was; a fish caught in her bait again. “Memang tugas dari bapak apa saja, sih, Mas?” She asked, feigning innocence. “Karena dari kemarin, saya bolak-balik diberitahu soal ‘tugas’ ini, sama mas Sancaka dan mbak Jenar, tapi saya masih kurang ngerti.” 

Adi tapped the surface of his violin, lightly. “Setiap anak punya tugas—berbeda-beda. Manifestasi tugasnya juga.” He said, “tapi tujuannya satu; mewujudkan cita-cita bapak.” the taps on his violin is now rhythmic—suspenseful and somewhat intense. 

“Dan apa cita-cita bapak memangnya, mas?” 

_ Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. _

“Sesuatu yang Mbak nggak akan pernah mengerti.” He replied, “Lagipula, kalau saya kasih tau Mbak, nanti mbak harus mati--berabe kan mbak?” 

The tap stopped, Wulan took a sharp intake of breath. 

_ Did he just say—? _

And then Adi laughed, unbridled and gleeful, as if he’s satisfied. “Tenang aja, Mbak.” He spoke, in between laughter, “Nggak usah tegang-tegang.” He grinned, wolfish and teasing. 

But he didn’t say that he was _ joking, _and all Wulan’s senses were… tingling. 

She cleared her throat, swallowing some of her nerves. “Ha ha,” She forced a laughter, “tapi soal tugas… apakah semua anak harus patuh?” 

Something in Adi’s face darkened, and he looked away. “Bahkan yang bukan anak-pun harus tunduk pada Bapak—mau apapun titahnya.” He stared at his violin.

“Karena Bapak adalah Raja?” She reiterated what he told her. 

“Raja, Raja, Raja,” Adi sing-songed, which, now, _ really _was something Wulan hadn’t expected. “Raja yang duduk di atas takhta api-nya, menarik ulur kita semua dalam kehendaknya!” He exclaimed the last part, before cackling, like the sudden burst was funny to him. 

Wulan blinked—once, twice. She inched back from her seat, Tono’s words starting to make sense. “Uh… baik.” She said, looking back at her notes, “Tapi kalau Bapak itu Raja… anak-anaknya Puteri dan Pangeran dong, Mas?” She tried again, following into his wordplays.

Adi looked up, left and right, like he didn’t hear Wulan’s question. She was about to call him again when he finally answered, in an eerily lower tone, “Bukan Putri dan Pangeran, tapi Prajurit.” He said, still looking around, anywhere but her. “Mbak tahu, kenapa kami prajurit?”

“Eh--” 

“Karena akan ada perang,” Adi leaned forward from his seat, face closer to her. Under the dim lighting of the studio, his contorting facial expression looked… odd and unsettling. “Dan saat perang itu mulai, kami sudah _ siap.” _

Alright, now Wulan wasn’t _ sure _ what the hell was going on, what did he meant behind the metaphor. Because-- “ _ Perang?” _She asked, incredulously. 

But Adi was merely cackling, “Mbak tegang!” He said, gleefully, “Padahal saya sudah bilang jangan tegang, tapi masih juga!” He pointed her at the face, and Wulan squirmed uncomfortably at her seat, eyeing the clock. 

“Saya--nggak tegang, kok,” She said, shaking her head politely and forcing a tense laughter out of her mouth. 

“Tenang saja, Mbak,” Adi grinned, “selama rakyat nggak menghalangi jalan Raja, mereka akan baik-baik saja.”

“Dan kalau menghalangi?”

“Maka mahal harga yang harus dibayar mereka.”

“Bisa..." Wulan hesitated, "Bisa dihilangkan?” She said, pressing on. 

Adi’s eyes narrowed at Wulan’s challenging gaze—sharp and immediate. “Wah, wah,” He said, clicking his tongue, “mbak dengar dari siapa, memangnya?” 

Wulan didn’t back down from his intimidation. “Bapak memberitahu saya, soal saudara mas yang menghilang karena tidak mau nurut.” She said, sweetly with just the right pinch of innocence peppered to her tone. “Kalau saya dengar dari mas Sancaka sih, sepertinya kabur dari rumah. Atau diusir.” She said, feigning cluelessness. 

Adi raised an eyebrow. “Sancaka bilang begitu?” He asked, voice suddenly laced with urgency and… offense? Like he was personally angry at the statement. Startled, Wulan nodded, wordlessly. 

Then Adi moved in his seat to fully face her, so abrupt and harsh, Wulan was surprised. “Mbak jurnalis, kan?” He asked, his voice rough. “Tahu berita akhir-akhir ini, pasti?”

Wordlessly, Wulan nodded. 

“Kalau begitu, Mbak harusnya tahu, bagaimana hilang yang dimaksud bapak.” He leaned to his chair, looking at Wulan intently. 

The way he said it threw Wulan off. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but the way Adi spoke… it had some grit to it, some anger. 

Her mind went back to Dirga, and to Sadhah, bawling his eyes out about the bald men in the party. She gulped, mind whirring as it stacked sentences against evidences. Adi had said _ nothing _ and _ everything _at the same time. 

_ Could it be? _

_ Could she be right? _

“Maksud mas gimana, ya?” Wulan inquired, voice tinted with urgency now. 

Adi’s eyes were dark, now. He stood up, before approaching to Wulan and leaned down to her, their eyes close enough to make Wulan back away. “Seharusnya banyak orang bersyukur,” He said, cryptically, “Paling tidak, sisa kesayangan mereka, tidak habis dilalap api.” 

Wulan saw his eyes; filled with grief, anger, resignation—all mixed into one, creating a wildfire she didn’t quite expect. 

“Saya—”

“Pak?” 

Both individuals turned to find Tono standing in the hallway, surprise evident in his face as he caught them in quite an odd position. “Janji jam setengah sebelas bapak udah disini,” he said, hesitantly. “Ini saya suruh tunggu apa gimana?” 

Adi straightened himself, looking at Wulan with a quick glance before declaring. “Kita sudah selesai.” He offered Wulan a hand. “Terimakasih sudah menulis soal bapak saya.” He said, but his voice is now void of any emotions. 

Wulan walked out of the building still halfway dazed, not quite believing what just happened. She couldn’t wait to review those tapes now, more than ever. For Adi’s words—

Wulan shook her head, strengthening her resolve. She flagged down a taxi, excited to share this new-found information with Nani. Except, when she arrived at WijayaTech—Wulan looked down at her phone, and sure enough, there was a text message from Nani. But it only said one thing: _ Sorry, Lan, had to cancel! Emergency meeting. Raincheck for tomorrow? _

It was somehow more annoying that Nani had sent the whole text in _ English. _Wulan scoffed—what was she expecting, to be put on a pedestal higher than the precious work the Wijayas were doing to… revolutionize technology or whatever their slogan was. She couldn’t care less.

She couldn’t believe that she went through all the trouble of getting here all the way from Alam Sutera only for Nani to cancel, _ last minute _ , on a plan that she had made. She was really looking forward to review those tapes with her, find the connections between the crumbs that she’d been collecting, _ anxious _to do it, even. If only Nani had texted sooner, she’d at least saved the money she spent on transportation for lunch. 

She only had twenty-thousand in cash, maybe a couple ten thousands on Gopay, but there was one thing she knew for sure: nothing in this office cafeteria would cost less than that. She should probably find the _ kantin supir _, see if there were any cashback promos or some truly nice stall sellers who would let her sneak more rice than the average consumer. 

It was just her luck that as she stepped into the elevator, she came face to face with the stoic-faced Sancaka. 

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Kamu di sini.”

_ Of course he would be here, idiot. He worked here. _

“Wulan?” Sancaka said. “Ngapain di sini? Ada perlu lagi sama saya?”

Wulan pressed the B for _ basement _, settling herself a good foot away from Sancaka. Not too close that she would be intruding his space and giving him all the wrong—right—ideas, not too far away that he would be suspicious. “Nggak kok,” she said. “Mau ketemuan sama orang sebetulnya, tapi orangnya ngebatalin tiba-tiba. Udah terlanjur di sini padahal.”

“Terus, ini mau ke mana?” Sancaka asked.

Before Wulan could think to be embarrassed, she answered, “Nyari makan ke _ kansup _.” Then too late, realized that Sancaka was probably out to have lunch at some trendy cafes that served cheese on top of tea. Wulan was never one to feel inferior when faced with wealth, having lived in it herself and finding it overrated, but there was something about Sancaka that made Wulan not want to appear as less than. It wasn’t exactly a welcome feeling. 

But then, Sancaka smiled—the tiniest of smiles, a subtle curve of the corners of his mouth that made Wulan sure there was more beneath that layer. “Sama, dong.” A moment of hesitation, and then, “Mau bareng?”

Wulan returned his smile, “Boleh.”

_ Of course _ —despite his net worth now, Sancaka used to live in the streets, eating out of garbage cans and people’s leftovers. Wulan had no reason to feel _ less than _, when Sancaka had lived more or less then same life she had. 

The elevator gave a soft _ ding _, and the doors opened to the basement. As soon as they walked out, the soft breeze of the air-conditioned building was immediately replaced by hot, sticky air coming out of fan blowers. 

Wulan huffed, already sensing how the humidity would do unspeakable things to her curls. As she followed Sancaka to where she assumed would be the _ kansup _, she rummaged in her purse in search of a scrunchie—only a ponytail could save her hair from poofing up like a lion, and she wasn’t in the mood for feeling self-conscious about her hair when she could use this opportunity to get to know Sancaka better. 

(_ To support her investigation in the question of Haedar Subandi’s secrets, of course. All strictly professional) _

Despite her best efforts, a few curls managed to escape her tight ponytail, dangling over her forehead annoyingly. She decided to let it go. 

The _ kantin supir _was nicer than she expected, though not air-conditioned, as was typical of low-income-targeted establishment such as this. There were a handful of picnic tables in the middle, some mismatched chairs and tables with a group of people already sitting on it, and no less than seven food stalls arranged to surround the tables. Wulan was already scanning for the lowest price. 

“Pake Gopay,” Sancaka said, as if he could read Wulan’s mind. “Ada cashback 40%.”. 

Wulan chuckled. “Kansup udah bisa pake Gopay?”

“WijayaTech,” Sancaka shrugged, which made sense. “Kamu pesen duluan aja, aku _ tag _-in tempat dulu.”

Thankfully, when she checked, she still had twenty-five thousand on her Gopay wallet, and she ended up buying _ nasi rawon _for fourteen thousand. 

“Nggak pesen minum?” Sancaka asked her.

Wulan placed the steaming bowl of rawon securely on the table. She sat down, reaching for her water bottle, brandishing it in front of Sancaka proudly. “Selalu bawa minum, dong.” Sancaka only shook his head in response—something akin to fondness in his eyes that Wulan didn’t want to read too deep into. He left their table to order food for himself, and Wulan, with great effort, waited for him to come back before eating. 

Sancaka ordered cah kangkung and ayam rica, a combination that for Wulan seemed strange, but she’d accept it. She’d even pray that it’d be the strangest thing about Sancaka and he wasn’t involved in any of the things Wulan was suspicious of. Sancaka noticed the untouched state of Wulan’s lunch and said, “Kok belum dimakan? Nungguin?”

Wulan shrugged. “Nggak sopan, kalo udah diajak makan terus malah makan duluan.”

Sancaka looked strangely touched by such a tiny gesture, that Wulan couldn’t help the little smile that crept over her face. Wulan bowed her head in prayer, thanked God for the meal, and dug in. The greatest thing that she discovered about the _ rawon _ soup was that there were a generous heaping of beef chunks at the bottom of the bowl, and not only five or six like the _ rawon _ from some _ warteg _s were.

“Laper banget kayaknya,” Sancaka commented, but it was without malice. 

Wulan nodded sheepishly. “Ya, gimana, nggak sempet makan tadi pagi. Bangun-bangun langsung cus ke rumah abangmu.”

“Yang mana?”

Wulan was tempted to say, _ the insane one _, but since she was trying to develop Sancaka’s trust in her, she simply said, “Yang main biola.”

“Adi?”

Wulan nodded again. 

Unexpectedly, Sancaka let out a laugh. Wulan would like to hear it more often. “Ya ampun,” he said, “Gimana? Kamu dapetin apa yang kamu butuhin?”

Wulan thought back on Adi’s seemingly out-of-mind statements, the bits about fate and blood and fire. “Uh,” Wulan hesitated. “Kurang lebih…?”

“Nggak apa-apa, kamu nggak usah takut buat bilang kalo Adi itu…”

“Nyentrik?” Wulan offered helpfully.

“Kata yang tadi mau aku gunakan sebenernya lebih jahat tapi nyentrik juga nggak apa-apa,” Sancaka said. “Dia emang begitu. Nyentrik luar biasa. Waktu kecil juga susah banget ngobrol sama dia. Cuma bisa nyambung kalo dia lagi main biola.”

“Ah,” Wulan said, picking up half of the salted egg and scooping out the whites. “Harusnya tadi aku suruh sambil main biola, ya. Biar nggenah.” She scooped a spoonful of rice, _ rawon _broth, and a piece of egg into her mouth. “Lebih susah adik perempuanmu, sih. Jenar.”

“Jenar paling nggak suka sama reporter,” Sancaka agreed. “Tapi keren juga kamu berhasil lulus dari ujian mereka. Selamat.”

The way he talked about them was helplessly _ normal _, Wulan would talk about Teddy’s most annoying quirks like that. For a split second Wulan almost believed that there was nothing sinister going on underneath. Wulan chuckled in response, and their conversation transitioned into a comfortable lull. 

“Jadi... “ Sancaka said as Wulan was munching on the last of the rice. “Kamu ke sini nyari siapa?”

Wulan took a sip from her water bottle and considered her options. On one hand, she was here to investigate a suspicion about his beloved father, but on the other, she was still pissed at Nani and in need of an outlet to vent. She set her water bottle down. “Aku mau ketemu sama Nani.”

There was an immediate shift in Sancaka’s face at the mention of her name—right, Nani had mentioned that her lead scientist seemed to hate her for no reason. _ She _was also suspicious of him—Wulan didn’t have the truth yet, but the one truth that she knew at this moment was that Nani had decided to cancel on her when they could’ve been getting answers right at this moment.

“Ngapain kamu nyari Nani?” Sancaka asked, his tone far too casual for it to mean nothing. “Kamu mau wawancara dia juga?”

Wulan sighed, long-sufferingly. “Iya… dan nggak.”

Sancaka raised his eyebrows. 

“Ceritanya panjang,” Wulan said. 

“Aku ada waktu, kok,” he smiled. 

Wulan tried not to be bashful at that. “Inget waktu itu aku pernah bilang ke kamu aku pernah jadi anak angkat juga?” she started, looking down into the empty bowl after she caught Sancaka nodding, signaling yes—this would be the first time she told anyone about her past with the Wijayas out loud, she realized, and that fact made it hard to look at Sancaka in the eyes. “Aku diadopsi sama keluarganya dia.”

Something clicked in Sancaka’s eyes. “Kamu _ Wulan _yang itu?”

Wulan hated being known as _ that _Wulan, the poster foster child of the Wijayas who they loved to parade around like some kind of trophy, only to serve as a punching bag when they felt like it, but she nodded. Her face showed up pretty often on television in the first few years she was with the Wijayas. Nani’s mother needed to make it known to the entire country that she made the perfect picture of a loving, caring mother, and not at all like the one-night-stand of a sexpat that she was. 

Sancaka made an aborted gesture like he was trying to reach for her hand, but decided against it last minute. His tone, when he spoke, was incredibly soft anyway. “Lan, kalo nggak mau cerita nggak apa-apa, kok. Aku kira-kira udah bisa nebak, apa yang mereka lakuin ke kamu.”

Oh, of course. Because Nani’s mother had all but announced Wulan’s escape to anyone who would listen, any radio or TV station who didn’t have better news to report, made it seem like Wulan was the ungrateful little foster child who ran away to pursue some kind of illicit dreams of independence, and she was the weeping mother who couldn’t stand to be away from her child, foster or otherwise, for one second. She spread her posters, even bought a billboard, to paint the whole nation sympathetic towards her, and though more than a decade had passed, every time she remembered it, Wulan felt so close to punching something.

She tried to get a grip on her emotions. “Nggak, udah lama juga kejadiannya. Iya, aku Wulan yang _ itu _ —yang diadopsi sama keluarga Wijaya, dipamerin di setiap acara keluarga, dibawa ke acara TV…” _ Like some kind of circus monkey, _Wulan didn’t say. “Dari situ aku tahu Nani. Dia saudara angkatku.”

Sancaka took all this in, his mouth stiff, like he couldn’t figure out if he should say sorry or keep listening. In the end, his only response was a tight squeeze of his hand, which Wulan was grateful for—the last thing she wanted was pity. 

“Aku ingat kamu kabur dulu,” Sancaka said. “Aku ingat pernah nonton berita soal kamu di rumah Bapak, mendengar ibu angkatmu menangisi kamu, minta kamu kembali. Tapi entah kenapa, aku selalu tidak percaya sama omongan dia.” 

Wulan shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. She always hated telling the story of her past, hated how it made her feel like her skin was flayed open for all to see. “Emang kalo punya koneksi sama duit, paling gampang manipulasi cerita.”

Sancaka’s thumb rubbed comforting circles on her palm. He said none, but his eyes told more than enough—he must’ve understood it, if not more, then as much as Nani understood what it meant to have to present a front for the public. His father, a generous businessman, being called a mafia in the Parliament. 

(And at the same time, she was investigating his possible involvement in a murder. _ Gusti _.)

“Aku diambil dari mamaku. Selama aku sama keluarga Wijaya, yang mereka kasih tahu soal mama cuma satu, bahwa dia itu _ drug addict _yang bisa membahayakan aku kalo aku tinggal sama dia. Tapi ketika aku nyari tahu, ternyata yang mereka bilang itu salah besar.” Wulan closed her eyes against the hurt, the betrayal that still felt so fresh in her mind—no, her mother hadn’t been a drug addict, a drunk, or anything of the sort. She had only been a poor, single mother, who didn’t know better when a couple of well-dressed men came into her house with a promise to make her daughter’s life better than hers. “Mamaku ditipu, didatengin sama pesuruhnya Wijaya, dibilang kalo mereka mau bantuin mama aku buat menghidupin aku. Tapi aku malah dibawa ke keluarga Wijaya.”

Where she was forced to straighten her curly hair—_ cah ayu nggak ada yang rambutnya kribo, Wulan _—speak exclusively in English, and yelled at if her English was heavily accented, but to show off her Javanese skills when in front of the extended family to make up for the fact that Nani wasn’t a pure Javanese, so Nani’s mother could get all the words of congratulations and validation that she desperately needed to live. 

“Pas aku SMA, aku nyoba nyari mamaku,” Wulan started, and suddenly there was a log in her throat, forcing the words back. She didn’t want to remember the state that her mother was in, the frail bones and the pale skin and the half a mind, Teddy’s cold skin, barely breathing. 

“Kamu ketemu Teddy,” Sancaka inferred. 

Wulan nodded. “Aku harus nyelamatin dia. Aku minta tolong ke ibunya Nani buat bantuin aku dan Teddy, tapi—”

_ Hidupku udah soro ngurusin anak jalanan kayak kamu, terus kamu mau minta aku bawa satu lagi ke rumah? Nggak tahu diri! _

“Jadi kamu kabur,” Sancaka concluded.

Wulan nodded, once again. Words felt impossible. How fucking _ weak _ it was that it had been more than a decade, and yet those assholes still had this effect on her. She should’ve gotten over it, should’ve gotten _ better _at managing this—

“Lan,” Sancaka called softly. Wulan looked up, expecting pity in his eyes, instead she found—anger. “Orang seperti keluarga Wijaya cuma bisa mengambil dari orang lain. Mereka suka membanggakan diri sendiri, masukin naratif tentang mereka ke semua masalah dengan bantuan, seolah uang mereka bisa menyelesaikan semua pertikaian, tapi aku tahu tentang mereka.” His voice was hard when he said, “Ayahku juga dibunuh mereka.”

It took Wulan a minute to get past the anger to realize that he’d meant his _ biological _father.

Wulan’s senses _ tingled, _sensing the shift of the tone, the importance of this conversation weighed for her investigation.

“Ayahku dulu ketua serikat pekerja di pabrik baja yang dulu punya keluarga Wijaya,” Sancaka said. “Waktu dia minta hak-haknya diberikan, dia malah dibunuh dan mereka nggak mau ngaku.”

“Ya Tuhan,” Wulan said, one hand covering her mouth. This was—this was a development, indeed, a _ motive _against the Wijayas, but--what for? What did it manifest to? 

And what was all this had to do with--with Dirga’s murder?

Her mind whirred, trying to piece jagged puzzles together, forcing mismatched information to fit against one another. And that wasn’t even including her heart, which was faltering with doubt with each growing second; Sancaka’s words had her questioning herself again—_ Did she do the right thing, trusted the right people? _

_ Did she do right, trusting Nani--who had only stood by and watched as she endured abuse after abuse--give her the benefit of the doubt? Does she want to work with someone whose hands are wet with blood, even if it’s only by association? _

“Orang-orang seperti anggota keluarga Wijaya yang hidup di masa sekarang, mereka nggak ngerti gimana rasanya kerja keras, dan pada saat yang bersamaan, menyalahkan orang miskin atas kemiskinan mereka karena tidak kerja keras,” Sancaka said. “Aku dan kamu tahu itu. Apa pun yang kamu butuhkan sama Nani Wijaya, tidak setimpal dengan resiko dihancurkan hidup-hidup—karena itulah yang dilakukan oleh semua anggota keluarga Wijaya ke siapa pun yang mengganggu _ image _mereka.” 

Wulan stared at him, at the _ Wijaya Tech _badge that he wore around his neck. “Bisa banget ngomong gitu.”

Sancaka leaned back. “Aku udah bilang, di sini bukan karena pilihan aku,” he murmured. “Tugasku di sini.” He slowly removed his hand from on top of hers, and Wulan brought her hand back to rest on her lap. 

Wulan stared at him, hard. “Tugas apa?”

Sancaka didn’t say anything for a long time, just simply held her gaze in his, until Wulan felt the rest of the world blur around them. The only focus was the look on Sancaka’s face. Finally, he leaned forward, and his next words were the surest thing that Wulan had ever heard in her life: “Mengembalikan keadilan.”

In that split second, Wulan found herself believing that the Wijaya family, that _ Nani _ herself, was the source of all injustice, and that _ yes, she believed in anything Sancaka would do to restore justice. _

Then the sight of Cynthia Mahadewi breaking down at Dirga’s funeral flashed back in her mind. 

_ No, _she’d worked in journalism for far too long, uncovering truths and discovering lies, to believe that evil was personified. Evil was not a person, not even a family—it was a system, and no matter what Sancaka believed, a family like the Wijayas was only a fraction of the problem. 

“Dengan cara apa?” Wulan implored. 

Sancaka didn’t hesitate. “Apa pun. Apa pun yang harus aku lakukan.”

Wulan was familiar with that look; in her line of work, she’d encountered many people with that same look in their eyes, activists determined to make a change, families of murdered children angry at the police, wanting justice, but above all, revenge. She’d seen also what revenge did to people, the fleeting satisfaction, the void that followed after. 

Wulan unzipped her bag, returned her half-full water bottle. “Waktu aku pertama kali ketemu kamu di Wijaya Expo,” she murmured, “yang aku pikirkan adalah, _ ini orang terlalu baik _. Bahwa kamu ngebeliin adekku makanan—udang, pula, yang dia suka, padahal kita baru ketemu dua kali, ngeyakinin aku kalo kamu emang beneran orang baik.” She looked up, watched the way Sancaka absorb her words. “Aku udah lama nggak percaya kalo masih ada orang baik di dunia ini. Buat aku, orang itu cuma baik kalo mau sesuatu.”

“Menurutmu aku mau sesuatu dari kamu?” Sancaka asked. 

“Mungkin iya,” Wulan shrugged, “mungkin kamu lagi nunggu saat yang tepat, ketika kamu udah cukup dekat sama aku buat mengambil hal yang kamu mau dari aku. Mungkin juga nggak.” Her phone buzzed inside her jeans. She fished it out, eyeing the preview of the WhatsApp message she’d just gotten—_ time to work _. “Apa pun yang kamu lakukan, entah itu ‘tugas’ dari Bapak atau keinginan kamu sendiri,” she took one last look at Sancaka, “semoga itu nggak mengubah kepercayaan aku kalau masih ada orang baik di dunia ini.”

Sancaka said nothing. Wulan didn’t expect him to. With a polite smile, she rose from the table, leaving Sancaka to stare after her as she walked away.

* * *

Desti’s bag-strap lashed at his back, resulting in a loud, painful crack and an indignant, _ “Hey!” _

Sancaka turned, wincing as he glared at his youngest sibling in half-annoyance. The whip stung his skin, most definitely leaving a mark that would sure be questionable if anyone saw. The sibling in the receiving end of the glare shrugged her reply, looking about as giddy as a kid who let her brother’s hand got stuck in the cookie jar. “Situ sendiri yang manggil kita semua kesini,” she said, “Eh, kita dateng, malah ditinggal ngelamun.” 

“Ya tapi kan gak usah dipukul juga—”

Grinning, Desti replied, “Tau, kok.” She whipped her hair, rather dramatically, “tapi kan gue _ pengen.” _She cackled then, that nearly-maddening voice that kind of creeped Sancaka out, a little bit. 

Jenar, who’d been standing next to Desti, merely snorted. “Kukira mau ngapain,” she interjected. “Nek kamu minta kita dateng cuma buat ngelihatin kamu galau, _ video call _juga bisa, kali.” 

There was a splutter on the other end—and Sancaka turned to see Jack barely holding his laughter, knuckles pressed onto his upturned lips at Jenar’s words. Sancaka glared at him, cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment for being caught daydreaming. “Udah lama gak ketemu, ternyata Mas San masih gak berubah ya,” Teased Jack, still grinning mischievously, “masih hobi mojok, pundung sendiri.” 

“Heh, udah.” 

All three adults turned to see Cantika approaching them with stern looks, directed specifically at Desti and Jack. She was stuffing her doctor’s coat to her a large Adidas overnight bag, before tossing the thing haphazardly. It landed right on the corner of the bench Sancaka was sitting—a quite impressive aim, but that was to be expected of her. “Jail banget sih, kalian, sama kakaknya—jangan digangguin mulu, dong.” She said, ruffling Jack’s unruly hair, then lightly pinching both Desti’s and Jenar’s cheeks. 

“Ah, Kakak nggak seru,” Desti complained, “Mesti Mas San dibelain.” 

Cantika rolled her eyes, sitting down next to Sancaka on the floor. There weren’t much space to properly sit to begin with, what with them gathering at Swara Batin’s dance studio, which was all floors and no chairs. “Aku tuh belain orang yang lagi di-_ bully,” _ said Cantika, patiently. “Sekarang kan, Sancaka yang di- _ bully, _ kalian pem- _ bully- _nya.” Sancaka watched as she peered at her front, her upper body leaning forward alongside her head, at the owner of said dance studio, “Ya, kan?”

The man at the receiving end of her hopeful glance merely shrugged, looking near bored, not uttering any words as usual. Swara Batin simply gave his siblings a long stare, before going back to what he was doing at the corner of the room; polishing his _ lenong _mask. 

Sancaka saw as Cantika’s smile faltered, but Swara Bathin’s silence was to be expected. “Intinya gitu, deh,” Cantika sighed, flipping her hair. “_ Anyway. _Yang lain mana?” 

Desti and Jenar exchanged glances before shaking their heads, while Jack shrugged, sitting down with his head resting on Cantika’s back. Sancaka, who’d been quiet for a while, finally spoke up. “Sam sama Adi masih pada di jalan tadi katanya,” he said softly. “Biasa, jam pulang kerja, macetnya sampe sekarang.” 

Cantika hummed in acknowledgement, leaning on Sancaka’s side. “Ya udah, kalau gitu,” she said, softly. “Yang penting gak ada yang kenapa-napa aja.” 

Their oldest sister had that habit; asking her siblings’ well-beings when they weren’t within her proximity. If there was one thing Sancaka could say about Cantika it was that she _ worried _a lot, specifically regarding her brothers and sisters. 

_ Especially since _—

Jenar, meanwhile, blew a stray hair over her face away. “Kebiasaan, kan, jam karet.” She huffed, checking her wrist watch. They were about one-half hour late than their intended meeting. “Janjian jam berapa, berangkat jam berapa, baru beneran mulai jam berapa.” She grumbled. “Padahal aku baru mendarat tadi siang, loh. Kok bisa nyampe paling duluan, kan lucu.”

“Ye, kalo lo mau nyalahin orang tuh, salahin Mas San, lah,” piped Jack from below, still leaning on Cantika’s back. “Ngajakinnya udah ndadak, maksa lagi.” He scoffed. “Awas ya, pokoknya habis ini traktirin makan, gak.” 

“Seconded!” Desti chimed in excitedly, sitting down cross-legged in front of Cantika, clapping her hands. Jenar sighed and followed along, pulling her legs up to her chest. “Lagian ngapain _ sih, _ngajakin ketemuan tiba-tiba? Bukan di rumah Bapak, lagi?” 

All heads turned to Sancaka—even Swara Batin looked up from his mask-polishing activities, looking interested—immediately putting him in the spotlight. The man squirmed, rather uncomfortable at the sudden attention. “Uh,” he gulped, mulling the words at the tip of his tongue. “Aku mau ngajakin… _ sparring _.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Jack inquired. “Satu-satu, gitu? Kita ngelawan mas Sancaka gantian?” 

“Bukan.” Shaking his head firmly, Sancaka clarified, “Kalian semua, barengan, lawan aku. Seperti—” he took a deep breath, “seperti waktu _ capture the flag _dulu.” 

Silence fell into the room. Intense exchange of glances occured, something that Sancaka was not invited to. Sancaka understood why: capture the flag was _not _a normal occurrence in the sparring regime of Pengkor’s children. It wasn’t something one would voluntarily seek, much less _request; _its violent nature and inherent unfairness was designed specifically as either a _test _or a _punishment. _

To request this; out of the blue, on top of that—

Jenar was the first to question him. “Bapak…” she hesitated, “Bapak yang nyuruh?”

Sancaka’s face contorted into one that could only described into a mild panic. “_ Nggak.” _ He said, his denial rushed. “Dan tolong, _ tolong, _jangan kasih tau Bapak—ataupun Kamal.” He nearly visibly shuddered at the thought. “Ini dari—aku sendiri, kok. Buat latihan; biar sekalian ngetes inovasi baru, tahan apa nggak.” 

“Bohong.” 

All of them turned to Desti, who was idly playing with her bag-strap. “Pasti buat _ misi, _ kan?” She said, her grin almost widely _ inhumane, _with the amount of of unearthly glee put into it. “Hayo, pasti Mas Sancaka dapet misi kan, dari Bapak? Ayo bilang bilang bilang bilang bilang—” 

“_ Desti.” _

It was Cantika, her voice booming louder than usual, echoing through the empty walls of Swara Bathin’s studio. “Cukup.” She said, and if she had been stern before, this time she was cold.

“Ah, Kakak gak seru. Kakak juga pasti penasaran kan, iya kan iya kan—”

Jenar laid a hand over Desti’s thigh, lightly squeezing it. “Let it go, Des.” She said, quietly, carrying the same amount of warning with Cantika’s tone. 

“Aw, come on, just a _ peek _, I’m curious—”

“_ Desti Nikita.” _Cantika was standing now, startling both Sancaka and Jack, her presence authoritative and non-debatable. “Inget peraturannya; nggak ada yang boleh tahu misi satu sama lain.” She said, tone leaving no room for any counter-argument.

The reprimand was harsh and final, but it was important that they made Desti _ remember. _ To even have a _ glimpse _of what the others were told to do by Bapak could set an undesirable chain of events, one that even could—

_ “Nggak ada sisa badannya,” Sancaka said, that night, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Mobilnya aja gosong, Kak, kata penyidik tadi, siapapun yang di dalamnya pasti tinggal _ — ** _tinggal_ ** — _ ” _

** _Tinggal abu _ ** _ dangled at the tip of his tongue, unable to tumble for then it would be all too _ real, _ and Sancaka couldn’t imagine that, he couldn’t _—

_ Cantika grasped his hand tighter. “Ini yang _ — _ yang terbaik,” replied Cantika, but even her voice shivered and was laced with doubt. “Konsekuensi dari—dari membangkang dari Bapak _ — _ ” _

Desti blinked, seemingly surprised before lowering her gaze. “Iya, iya,” she said quietly, visible annoyed, but resigned. “Maaf.” 

Cantika sighed, approaching Desti before running her hand over her hair. “Nggak apa.” She said, wearily, holding Desti’s jaw tenderly, “Yang penting kamu _ tahu _—”

“Wah, wah, wah. Lagi ngapain, nih?” 

All heads whipped to the direction of the entrance. Four figure approached them, Adi in the middle, flanked by Sam and Tanto on his sides—but their mouths were closed, so the voice couldn’t belong to them. As if on cue, Tanto stepped to the side, revealing a smiling Ghani. Sancaka cursed inwardly—of course. The most elusive out of all them, Ghani always managed to slip himself in any situation he wasn’t invited in. Adopted at the oldest age—_ fifteen _years old, when the rest of them was brought to Bapak under ten years old—much of Ghani’s life remained a secret; where the others would not hesitate to share their stories, Ghani never opened his mouth, never told anyone anything about his life. He was only known for one thing: playing the devil’s advocate.

“Selalu aku tertinggal momen _ bonding, _ ya,” Ghani said, with the tone of someone who was glad to _ not _ be invited, just so he could make grand entrances like this. “Aku mulai ngerasa kalo aku memang sengaja tidak _ diajak.” _Ghani then turned to Sancaka, giving him a dazzling smile. “Betulkah asumsiku, Mas San?” 

Sancaka took a sharp breath. _ Ghani. _ He’d warned all of them about not telling Kamal, but he had completely forgotten about his quiet, cunning little brother. Bapak’s left hand. The boy who made himself invisible most of the time, even to his own siblings. He didn’t text him, but someone _ must’ve. _

“Untung aja tadi aku lagi mampir ke tempat kerja Bang Sam,” Ghani continued, fully disregarding Sancaka’s sharp glare at him. “Jadi bisa tau kalo Mas Sancaka ngajakin ketemuan, terus sekalian bareng kesininya.” His grin was almost kind, almost genuine.

_ Almost. _

There was a hand over his shoulder, and Sancaka’s head snapped, looking up. There was Cantika, looking at him with narrowed eyes, silently asking, _ What’s wrong? _The rest of his siblings, however, seemed to pay no mind at his tension towards Ghani’s presence. 

Sancaka looked at Ghani, who merely returned the stare back with a sliver of challenge in his eyes. “_ Omong-omong,” _Ghani’s voice echoed through the vast columns of the studio hall. “Ada acara apa, Mas San, ngumpulin Anak Bapak cabang Jakarta mendadak?” 

It was Jack who answered, “Minta _ capture the flag _dia.” He stood up as well, shrugging, teasing in his eyes. “Maybe the lightning finally did make him nuts.” 

Desti involuntarily snorted, and even Jenar smiled a little. Cantika, meanwhile, merely exhaled heavily and rolled her eyes. 

“Sancaka dihajar sampai babak belur, yang ngehajar sesama dulur—” Adi sing-songed, with that slightly off-putting grin he usually sported. Beside him, Sam merely looked at Adi with a tired look. 

Cantika, meanwhile, stood up and glared at the musician. “_ Adi,” _she said, force lacing her words. Adi merely responded with a cackle, his violin case sliding from his grip to the floor. 

Sancaka could feel his head pounding as he sighed. It was always a fresh surprise to re-encounter Adi’s unhingedness, live. He forgot how unsettling Adi could make everyone feel. 

He then turned at Ghani, observing his expression; lacking from him were the worries his other siblings had displayed for him earlier, “_ Capture the flag, _ eh?” Ghani said, idly. “Seru juga. Udah lama, ya, kita nggak main itu?” It was framed as an innocent commentary, but—there was a slight _ glee _ to it, hidden beneath the words. “Peraturannya cuma satu kan ya—apa sih? Oh, _ ya _ —jangan segan _ menyerang.” _

Sancaka tensed. He didn’t like how Ghani sounded—more so than he didn’t like Adi’s words.

Feeling that frustration was slowly eating him alive, Sancaka looked away, choosing to instead stand up and clasp the conducting gauntlets onto his hand. “Udah kumpul semua, jadi mending kita segera mulai,” he said, more to himself than to others, as he grabbed a white handkerchief.

His siblings around him rustled and moved, preparing their own weapons. Jack with his knives, Sam with his sculpting tools; Adi with his bowstick. Desti, ever the resourceful one, merely grabbed her sling bag and fisted a poofy pink pen out of it, fiddling it with her fingers. Mutiara merely sighed and stretched, tapping her stiletto-clad feet to the floor, creating an echo. Even Swara Batin had recentered himself, his _ lenong _mask covering the back of his head.

Ghani crossed his hands over his chest. He brought nothing, as usual. “Kapan pun Mas siap,” he said with the air of someone about to jam a needle into someone’s arm.

“San?”

He could feel Cantika’s eyes linger at him, making sure. Sancaka nodded, trying to silently reassure her. From his peripheral, he could see Cantika sighing, before she brandished her own brand of tools; a small surgeon’s scalpel.

“Kita semua tau cara mainnya, kan,” Sancaka said, raising the handkerchief above his eyeline, bringing it to his siblings’ views. “Yang berhasil merebut ini dari aku, _ menang.” _ He continued, after pausing, “Tapi kalau aku berhasil mempertahankan ini sampai akhir, berarti aku yang menang _ .” _

“Berapa batas waktunya?” asked Sam, warily. 

Sancaka glanced at the worn, ancient clock stuck on the wall of the studio. “45 menit.” Sancaka cleared. “Sekarang jam 9.15, kita selesai jam 10.” He took a deep breath, stuffing the white handkerchief in his pocket.

“Mulai… dari… _ sekarang.” _

Desti was the first to strike him, as he expected—quick and impulsive, Desti’s fighting style hadn’t changed since she was little. Sancaka ducked, evading the pointy end of her preferred weapon: a frilly ballpoint pen, causing her to stumble without a target. Jack then came onto him, knives held high, and Sancaka took a deep breath before aiming his gauntlets at him. Lightning struck the knives out of his hands, but any of Bapak’s children were nothing if not antipacitory; he simply brought one another pair and chased Sancaka with them. 

He felt movement from behind him, but he wasn’t quick enough to fight back—Desti had recovered, and this time, she’d wrapped the strap of her bag around his neck, pulling him backwards. 

“Buruan, Jack!” Desti shrieked.

Gasping, Sancaka reached around his back, grabbing a tight hold of Desti’s arms, throwing her body forward. Desti fell with a thud, but at least he could breathe again—he was going to have to wear turtlenecks starting from today, he was sure. But getting Desti off of him didn’t mean relief—Jenar jumped up, straddled his neck with her thighs, her fists making painful after painful contact with the back of his head. 

Sancaka launched himself forcefully backwards, intending to hit the wall—and make _ Jenar _ hit the wall—with his body. A horrifying _ crunch _was heard, and Jenar slid off the wall, wincing. 

“Shit,” Sancaka said, “Jenar, maaf, aku nggak maksud—”

Sam didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. His hammer pummeled his chest, and Sancaka collapsed backwards, short of breath and in incredible pain. From above him, Sam said, “Kamu lupa, Sancaka, di permainan _ capture the flag _—” he raised his hammer above his head, “nggak ada rasa kasihan!”

He brought down his hammer, but Sancaka was quick to roll to the side. The hammer left a great indent next to his head. Covering his face with his gauntlets, he called for the lightning—and it came, like a flash bomb, blinding his siblings for a good second—enough time to pick himself up and throw Sam to the floor. 

Then, it was Tanto—he carried an oversized _ clurit _ , the shine on the blade nearly as blinding as the flash, beautiful and deadly at the same time. Tanto moved slow, dragging the sharp end of his _ clurit _ on the floor, like a lion stalking a deer—except Sancaka refused to be made prey at this point, and when Tanto came on him, Sancaka shot out his gauntlet-clad hand, catching the blade in his hand. Tanto pushed, his gauntlet threatening to rip apart under his force, but Sancaka re-focused his energy on his lightning, and directed it along the blade. The _ clurit _ crackled, Tanto yelling in pain as his body shook, blue bolts careening over his skin. With a grunt, Sancaka pushed at the _ clurit _, and Tanto fell in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

Breath heaving, Sancaka looked around. He heard Adi before he saw him—turning around, he gripped Adi’s collar tightly, his fist just centimeters away from his face—

“Jangan!” Adi begged, his face contorted in fear, “Tolong, jangan sakiti saya!”

“Adi—?”

A jolt of pain shocked him into letting go of Adi.

_ Fuck, he’d forgotten about this dirty trick. _

Adi’s maniacal laughter filled the room as blood seeped through his suit. None too kindly, Adi pulled out the bowstring out of his gut, the sharp tip of it glistening red. “Kamu melemah, Sancaka!”

Red dripped onto the floor. 

Cantika grabbed him before he could fall, steadying his shoulders. “San, udahin aja, kamu luka—”

“Cantika, ngapain?” It was Ghani, sounding like a disappointed parent. “Kamu melanggar aturan _ capture the flag _.”

Cantika sent him a dirty look. “Dia luka, _ Ghani _, nggak akan bisa menang.”

Ghani simply clucked his tongue. He removed Cantika’s hands from Sancaka’s shoulder, not heeding her protests, and with one hand, held Sancaka up by his chin. Straining, Sancaka tried to kick at him, but it only worsened the pain in his abdomen. 

“Ghani! Lepasin Sancaka!” Cantika yelled.

“Kamu tahu, kan, kalau Sancaka ini punya misi berat?” Ghani said. “Bapak bilang misinya paling penting. Anak emas Bapak, Sancaka itu. Selalu dibicarakan, seolah dia paling kuat.” He tightened his grip. “Kalau ditusuk sekali saja sudah jatuh… bagaimana bisa dia membanggakan Bapak, Cantika?”

_ Third time, Bapak was only going to give him one more chance _—

Sancaka growled, somewhere deep in his chest, and lightning shot out of him, sending Ghani flying to the opposite wall. He fell to the floor, chest heaving, and looked up—surprisingly, Cantika wasn’t hit at all by his lightning. He realized then that all he was thinking about before tapping to his lightning was to get Ghani off of him—somehow, his lightning read his mind and knew that he wouldn’t want to hurt Cantika in the process, and in the execution, somehow struck only Ghani, keeping Cantika out of harm’s way. 

Despite his bleeding guts, Sancaka felt a little joy at that—could it be that the lightning was finally listening to him?

He had no time to celebrate; he might have staved off his siblings for now, but children of Bapak didn’t stay down for very long. He struggled to get up, pressing down on his stab wound in a futile effort to stop the bleeding, and glanced up at the clock—only twenty-seven minutes had passed. A lot could happen before the forty-five minute mark. 

“Sancaka,” Cantika said, kneeling next to him, “Udahin aja. Kamu udah nggak mungkin lanjut—”

“Mbak,” Sancaka cut her off, “Aku bisa sembuh lebih cepat dari manusia biasa, ingat? Kasih aku waktu lima menit. Aku bakal baik-baik aja.” Cantika looked unconvinced—she was no longer holding her surgeon’s scalpel, he noticed. Technically against the rules—but she was already showing him more kindness than allowed in this game. “Mbak harusnya nggak khawatir soal aku begini.”

“Gimana nggak khawatir?” Cantika murmured, more to herself than anyone else. It would warm Sancaka’s heart, if not for the fact that out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Swara Batin rising to his feet, as if he’d only just realized that there was a fight going on. Cantika, noticing the way that his shoulders tensed, looked behind her back, at the direction of their oldest sibling. 

His lenong mask was on backwards. He had no smile, no discernable expression at all, yet it made him all the more intimidating. 

“Swara,” Cantika started, inserted herself between Sancaka, who was still trying to sit up, and the approaching man. “Udah, dia udah nggak kuat—”

“Sampai kapan, Cantika,” Swara Batin said, staring deep into Cantika’s eyes, unfeeling, “kamu mau _ ngelonin _dia terus?”

Cantika’s face turned red. “Ini nggak gitu—”

“Kalau begitu, apa? Kamu tidak melakukan Sancaka kebaikan apa pun dengan melindunginya seperti ini. Jika kamu sungguh sayang dengan Sancaka, maka kamu tahu, membiarkan dia melakukan ini hingga menit terakhir adalah pilihan yang tempat,” Swara Batin said. “Apa lagi kalau memang dia mengemban tugas penting, seperti yang Ghani bilang.”

Cantika held his gaze. Her hand went to her thigh, where Sancaka knew she kept a scalpel on a holster underneath her skirt, and then it went loose. Like she realized that she had lost. 

Her head bowed, she whispered, “Maaf, ya, Sancaka.” 

Finally gaining some strength, Sancaka dragged himself on his feet. From behind Swara Batin, he could see his siblings starting to regain their consciousness, waking up one by one, ready to fight again. He felt for the flag in his pocket—still there. No matter what, he’d do anything to keep it there. 

“Nggak usah minta maaf,” Sancaka said, “Aku butuh ini.”

As if it was all they needed, all hell broke loose. They charged at him all at once, without mercy—he didn’t keep track of who he punched, kicked, electrocuted with his gauntlet. All he saw were hands and weapons raining down on him, and he fought back. Swara Batin wasn’t among them, however; he stood just off the center, his hands crossed on his chest, like he was contemplating whether this fight was something worthy enough of his involvement. His eyes looked down on Sancaka, and it filled him with a strange surge of pettiness—he was the one who took the flag from him, all those years ago, and this time, Sancaka wasn’t going to let him do the same. 

When finally, the last of his siblings fell, it was Sancaka who approached him. 

“Lima menit lagi, Mas,” Sancaka said to him, “Kira-kira cukup kah untuk mengalahkan saya?”

Swara Batin did not take the bait. From behind him, Cantika appeared, and this time, she had her scalpel held tight. Sancaka felt a shudder at that sight—once, when they were younger, Cantika had brought him on a mission to kill a politician who had been talking too much, groping too much. She’d jammed her scalpel right into his eyes and left him to bleed out. She did not look like that now, but the sight of that scalpel sure reminded him aptly of that. 

Good, he thought. This was what he needed. For all he knew, the next time he saw Sri Asih, she’d be even more powerful. Who knew what kind of power the goddess would put into her. 

Cantika struck first. She was faster than Desti, more precise. Too late, Sancaka felt the slice of her scalpel on his thigh. The next time she lunged at him, he was quicker; he seized her by the wrist and pulled, not too hard that he’d break her arm, but certainly hard enough that she’d feel it the next day. Cantika groaned, trashing in his arms, but Sancaka held on. The very last minute, he let her go, and she collapsed on the floor, clutching her shoulder, face contorted in pain. She didn’t give up—Cantika rarely did. With her good hand, she slashed at Sancaka’s legs, and he jumped, avoiding her completely. 

Swara Batin came next. Sancaka almost didn’t hear him coming. He crept on him silently, like a spider on the wall. Sancaka registered the pain first before he realized it was him. Swara Batin kicked at him; he stumbled back, staggering. 

His oldest sibling eyed the clock lazily. “Tiga menit,” he muttered. Struck his fighting scene. “Lebih dari cukup.”

Sancaka patted his jeans. Still there. 

With great effort, Cantika brought herself to her feet. She’d acquired more scalpels, somehow—in between her fingers, there was one now. Yet it was Swara Batin who looked more dangerous, even when wielding nothing. 

Sancaka felt for his lightning. There, underneath his skin, it crackled. He imagined the two of them as Nani Wijaya, all dressed up in her Sri Asih regalia, with a power that she didn’t work hard to possess. He imagined this was his last chance at defeating her—at _ killing _ her, finishing the mission Bapak blessed upon him once and for all. He imagined how proud Bapak would be, how _ happy _.

Then he thought about how his lightning had defied him, just as he was _ this _close to ending her life. 

_ Lightning, _ he wondered, _ what do you want? _

Cantika ran towards him, throwing her scalpels as she went. He put up his gauntlet in front of his face. Each knife embedded itself in his gauntlet, precisely half a centimeter apart from each other. Swara Batin was hot on her heels: a flurry of blows that Sancaka couldn’t possibly follow with his eyes, lightspeed. Their fight chased him out of the studio, into the open balcony where he could be facing a twenty-story fall if he made just one wrong move. 

He aimed his gauntlet at them, calling for his lightning, but the familiar crackle died as soon as it surfaced. _ Fuck, _he cursed. Must be the scalpels doing their damage. Too slow, Swara Batin struck him on the chest, then once more with a kick that had him hitting the railing, hard. He reached for his neck, and with his other hand, he moved to retrieve the flag. Sancaka managed to block him with what little strength he had, but Swara Batin only tightened his chokehold. 

“Tiga puluh detik,” Swara Batin said.

Gasping, Sancaka shut his eyes, tried to look for the whirr underneath his skin, for his lightning. All his life, he’d been training to control it, to wield it under his hands. When it was too volatile to control without some kind of filter, he invented the gauntlets. Put himself through electrical engineering major, graduated in three years just so he could be closer to his mission. His lightning was detrimental in his mission to defeat Sri Asih; he couldn’t have it to give up on him, just because his gauntlet had been damaged. 

He imagined if the hand around his neck was Sri Asih’s, filthy and arrogant, the opposite of the way she presented herself in front of her investors. He thought about all the damage she had done, the way she’d let _ Wulan _be abused by her mother when she could’ve done something, all the bad things that she could’ve solved, could’ve helped with, if not for the fact that like all Wijayas, all she cared about was herself—

He put his hands on his ears, and _ screamed _.

Lightning sizzled across his body, and the lightning catapulted Swara Batin off of his body. Tables turned, Sancaka pressed him against the railing, his own hands wrapped around his neck in revenge. He knew he must be doubling down on the pain: his gauntlet had whirred back to life with electricity, but he didn’t care. All he was thinking of was the time Swara Batin kicked him after he’d forfeited, humiliated him in front of Bapak, the worst feeling that one could ever have.

He imagined doing the same thing to Sri Asih: his hands, choking the life out of her, making her answer for all the damage that she did on the people around her, the same ones she was fated to serve, on _ Wulan, _ who was supposed to be her sister, who she was supposed to protect. Wulan, who looked him in the eyes and told him he was _ good _—

Wulan, who told him, that whatever he did—

_ Semoga itu nggak mengubah kepercayaan aku kalau masih ada orang baik di dunia ini. _

As if he’d been burned, Sancaka took his hands off of Swara Batin. His oldest brother gasped, took in big gulps of breath, sliding down the railing weakly. He realized then that Cantika had been calling him for the better part of the minute now, and when he looked back, she looked terrified—of him. 

“Waktunya udah habis,” she told him, voice only slightly above a whisper. 

He looked down at his gauntlet. Still crackling. He closed his eyes, told it to stop. When he opened them, the lightning was gone. Gingerly, he peeled them off, letting them fall to the floor. 

He looked back at Swara Batin, at the angry red welt on his neck. Aside from his slightly red eyes, he didn’t look like a man who had nearly been choked to death. Alarmingly, he seemed _ pleased _. Once he managed to get to his feet, he squeezed Sancaka’s shoulder. 

“Kamu sudah siap,” Swara Batin said. His voice sounded hoarse, and the pit in Sancaka’s stomach dropped. God, he’d kill to do that to Nani Wijaya, but to his own sibling… Still, Swara Batin did not falter. “Apa pun misimu, saya yakin kamu akan berhasil.”

Sancaka bit down on his lower lip. “Terima kasih, Mas,” he said, but he still couldn’t get the red welts out of his head. 

Mostly because he knew, once he put those same marks on Nani Wijaya’s neck, Wulan would no longer believe there was still good people on this earth. 


	7. pitu.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kan Abang sendiri yang bilang," Ghani answered, and now his hand was lifted, bringing a tiny object before Adi's attention. A white handkerchief with distinct medical smell. Something in Adi's stomach churned in fear. " Raja tahu segalanya."
> 
> Eyes widening in shock, Adi instinctively took a step backward. "Gimana bisa—"
> 
> "Ssh." Ghani's fingers pinched Adi's mouth shut. "Hati-hati makanya kalau bicara, Bang; ingat sama _Malaikat_ —" he paused, grinning, "matanya dimana-mana."

The water is steaming as Adi dipped his finger to test the temperature; scalding—just the way he liked it. 

The concert he was playing at was nice, but it was quickly starting to suffocate him, just like most concerts usually do—especially afterwards, after he'd finished playing and had to mingle with the pompous wealthy, pretending to enjoy the airheaded conversation he dreaded to have. 

If only someone had told him earlier in his career that being a classical musician would involve having to entertain the ignorant rich, maybe he'd reconsider.

Now he was just tired; plus, the cracked joints and bruises throughout his body from Sancaka's little game in Swara Batin's dance studio still hadn't healed yet, despite it being three days ago. There was nothing more he would like to do right now than to untangle the kinks in his body, submerging it into the steaming water.

He smiled silently to himself as he then retreated, slowly freeing himself from the confines of his three-piece suit. First the buttons of his blazer, then the cufflink in the ends of his sleeves, then—

"Capek ya, Bang?"

Adi stopped. His entire body tensing. He knew who that voice belonged to. 

Glancing on his peripheral, he caught a reflection of Ghani from his peripheral, sitting idly on the closed lid of the toilet like he had all the time in the world. "Padahal konsernya masih jalan, kan?" Ghani was looking at him with a coy smile, like he didn't just come unannounced, breaking into Adi's apartment in the process. "Musisi kok, pulang duluan. Ngitung duit kah, Bang?"

Adi slowly lowered his hovering hands, turning his body to finally face his little brother. "Ghani," his name rolled out of his tongue like scathing venom; sharp and filled with civility. "Ngapain kesini?"

Ghani raised an eyebrow. "Biasa aja, Bang." The last word rolled off his tongue in a drawl, like he was enjoying his time. "Emang nggak boleh, adik berkunjung ke tempat kakaknya, ya?" He returned to Adi a question, his tone challenging.

Adi involuntarily snorted. "Nggak pernah ada yang biasa kalau sama kamu." He scoffed, legs widened in a defensive stance, as if he was a cornered prey ready to pounce back. "Sekarang ngaku, gak?" 

Ghani raised his hands—well, one hand, at least; Adi's view was obscured by the separating half-wall standing in-between the toilet bowl and the bathtub. "Udah malem, Bang." He said, still idle and light. "Rileks sedikit, kenapa. Senyum, gitu."

"Ghani," Adi growled, his entire body rigid in suspense. 

"_ Adi _." 

The mock echo made Adi snarl, and he bolted to where his brother sat, cornering him in his place. But Ghani merely laughed, slowly standing with ease. "Lucu ya Bang." He said, claiming his full height. "Padahal aku yang dipojokin. Tapi malah Abang yang tegang."

Adi glared at him, no less menacing even when he was a head shorter. "Mau kamu apa?" He hissed. 

"Ada pesan," Ghani replied, looking at Adi with a glint of amusement. "Dari bapak."

"Pesan?"

"Bapak ingin mengingatkan abang tentang peribahasa lama," Ghani took a step forward, aligning his gaze to Adi's hard ones. "Mulutmu harimaumu." He tilted his head, slightly, posing a curious innocence to his brother. "Abang pasti tahu, 'kan?"

Adi took a sharp intake of breath. "Tahu apa?" He asked through gritted teeth. 

"Kan Abang sendiri yang bilang," Ghani answered, and now his hand was lifted, bringing a tiny object before Adi's attention. A white handkerchief with distinct medical smell. Something in Adi's stomach churned in fear. "_ Raja _ tahu segalanya."

Eyes widening in shock, Adi instinctively took a step backward. "Gimana bisa—"

"Ssh." Ghani's fingers pinched Adi's mouth shut. "Hati-hati makanya kalau bicara, Bang; ingat sama _ Malaikat _—" he paused, grinning, "matanya dimana-mana."

Adi tried to talk, but his voice was muffled, and Ghani shushed him, and slowly backed Adi to his own tiles, like a predator enjoying his feast. He then raised the handkerchief, pressing the fabric firmly to his own brother's face, easily fighting his stilted screams.

"Selamat istirahat, Abang." Said Ghani, as Adi's eyes rolled back, slowly. "Kalau ketemu Kanigara, bilang, dia dapat salam dari Bapak; kangen katanya."

* * *

'_ Tomorrow' _turned out to be a 48 hour full of ghosting and a surprise text about an 8 P.M. rendezvous at Wijaya Inc. just when Wulan was about to usher Teddy into his nighttime routine.

Wulan was, understandably, pissed.

So pissed, she even came still wearing the forehead koyos, only covered slightly by her unruly curls. Other than that, she looked mildly presentable—dress-shirt and flats and all. 

Which was perhaps why Nani was eyeing her weirdly, before hesitantly pointing at her own forehead, asking, “Lo tau kan ada—”

“Iya.”

“Nggak mau lo—?”

“_ Nggak _.” 

Wulan’s curt answer was intentional—and they worked their intended purpose rather greatly, as Nani squirmed to Wulan’s sharp gaze while they were riding the elevator downwards. "Maaf—" Nani's voice pitched oddly, and Wulan raised an eyebrow as Nani cleared her throat awkwardly. "Maaf ya, ngasih taunya ngedadak."

The apology was quiet and almost sounded too reluctant for Wulan's ear, like it was said only to appease her rather than to express genuine regret. "Gue cuma punya waktu sampe jam 10 malem. Habis itu harus balik."

"Loh, kenapa—?"

"Soalé nggak semua orang bisa segampang itu _ sak dek sak nyek, _ Nan _ — _ bebas dari tanggung jawab, gitu aja." Wulan snapped, her tone jagged and vicious, slipping back to her native tongue. " _ Wong _ kamu ngasih taunya dadakan, adekku terpaksa tak tinggal _ dewean _di rusun." 

Nani was silent for a while, before suddenly piping up, "Kalo lo mau, gue bisa cariin _ sitter _ buat Teddy malem ini—cepet kok, Kakak sepupu gue kayaknya ada kenalan nganggur—"

Wulan clicked her tongue. "Lak mulai—"

"Nanti biar gue aja yang bayar—"

"_ Emoh, _ Nan." 

Wulan's cut was surprising, even for herself. Nani's eyes widened at Wulan's sharp tone, lips pressed thin, as if afraid to speak more. She fiddled with the hem of her white suit instead—a one set, her signature look, if Wulan recalled correctly—looking at Wulan warily.

There were so many _ things _ Wulan wanted to say, dangling at the tip of her tongue, unable to tumble. But this was no time for—for any of that. This was _ work, _and she couldn't let personal feelings jeopardize her professional obligations. "Ayo lah." Said Wulan, tiredly, after a moment of awkward silence, back on using her capital-city accent—her verbal armor. "Kita cepet selesaikan aja." 

The elevator dinged on Basement, and both women walked out, keeping a safe distance from one another. Nani led them to a small door, where it opened to see a smaller room, cramped and damp and musty. Even breathing seemed difficult with the doors closed.

There was only one chair, weary and creaking on its sprain, and a wide wooden table containing two large television—perhaps the most expensive things this cramped space could offer—showing every snippet of the CCTV footages in all areas of the building. There was only a small surface left, and it was peppered with dried crumbs of finger-foods. Wulan took one scan of the room and sighed; typical. 

"Gak ada tempat duduk lagi, ya?" Wulan asked as Nani sat down on the creaky chair without much ado.

"Eh, anjir, iya—lupa kursinya cuma satu—gue telponin satpam deh, minta—"

Wulan ignored Nani's mild fret and went out, instinctively going to the Kansup, which was just on the other end of this floor. Sure enough, there was a line of plastic chairs neatly stacked up, near the closed stalls. Smirking, Wulan picked up one of them, carrying it back without much of a fuss.

Nani, meanwhile, was looking at her with mild surprise and amusement. "Nemu kursi plastik dari mana?" She asked, genuinely curious, as Wulan set the chair beside her. "Gue tadi nggak lihat ada kursi selama kita jalan kesini?"

"Kansup." Said Wulan, off-handedly, taking her seat. "Kan di lantai ini juga." She wiped the crumbs off the table, trying to clean up. "Dah, ah, ayo cepetan mulai."

Nodding, Nani played the tape on one of the TVs. "Ini mulai dari setengah jam sebelum Dirga—" she tilted her head, and Wulan understood the reluctance. "Ini yang di _ main hall, _ dari CCTV tengah." 

The picture played, in all of its highest-definition glory, and sure enough, there was Dirga Utama, forever immortalized in the recordings of the tape. Wulan gulped when Dirga made a soft gesture to ruffle his children's hair, and kiss his wife's cheek, her throat suddenly clogged with emotions.

This was more than a name on a piece of paper. This was someone's dad. Someone's husband. Someone _ loved. _

Bu Cynthia's tired face and her children's tear-streaked ones were vivid in her mind. 

Wulan took a deep breath, eyes trailing Dirga as he distanced himself from his family and to the group of people hovering nearby—his commission from DPR, no doubt; Wulan could see Ridwan Bahri there, among the group. They chatted for a while, pleasant and performative. 

And then Sancaka came to frame, talking with the bunch, then—then striking what seemed to be a serious conversation. The camera was slightly pixelated, but Wulan could see Dirga’s face turning into a heated frown, and Sancaka’s expression hardening. 

Wulan’s heart halted at that. 

No, not for amorous reasons—although Wulan _ had _ been having troubles getting his smile out of her head as of late—the stutter in her heartbeat was much more contributed from _ fear; _ fear _ for _ him. Fear _ of _him.

_ Dia nggak mungkin terlibat, kan? _

“Lan?” 

Wulan turned, warily, to Nani, who was looking at her with concern in her eyes. “Lo pucet, deh.” Said Nani, softly, tentatively touching her hand as she did so. Her other hand hit the pause button, halting the video into a still. “Gak apa?”

Pressing her lips thin, Wulan blinked several times, trying to steel herself. _ Fokus, _ she thought, _ Ini pekerjaan. Ini tugas kamu. Jangan dibawa personal. _

Idly, a small part of her mused at the irony; _ kamu mulai kedengeran kayak Sancaka. _

Which brought her back here. 

“Gue nggak apa kok,” When Wulan finally answered, her mouth felt sandpaper-coarse. Steeling herself, she cleared her throat. “Lanjut aja, yuk.” 

Nani eyed her with something akin to worry, but she nodded, lightly tracing Wulan’s hand with soothing gestures. “If that’s what you want,” She said, kindly, and pressed the play button, and Wulan shoved the _ nano-nano _that was her feelings into the deep crevices of her mind, trying to focus back at the recording. 

Only half-a-minute after it replayed, Haedar Subandi came into view, limping into his son’s direction, his two children—Kamal and Ghani, if Wulan recalled correctly?—loyally placating themselves at his sides. Smoothly, like he was royally invited by the bunch himself, Wulan saw Pengkor sliding himself in-between the group’s pitter-patter, his free hand landing onto Sancaka’s shoulder. 

Wulan _ swore _ she saw the scientist tensing, like he was— _ nervous? _

(_ Afraid? _)

“Gue doang, apa dia emang tegang, sih?” She heard Nani asking. Wulan narrowed her eyes at the screen, hitting the pause button just when Sancaka was wincing and Pengkor’s hand seemed to grab him awfully tighter than he should. 

“Bukan lo doang,” Said Wulan, inching closer as she observed the still imagery. “Ini gak ada audionya ya?” 

“Ada sih, tapi gak guna juga—pasti kedengarannya juga cuma _ bzzt, bzzt _gitu, bukan omongan mereka. Pestanya rame, soalnya.” Nani sounded just as frustrated as Wulan felt. “Cuma—” She stopped hesitating. 

Wulan turned, genuinely curious. “Kenapa?”

When Nani spoke again, there was a blush accompanying her words, spreading her cheeks like rose-colored embarrassment. “Gue… inget gak waktu kecil kita pernah diajarin _ Mom _—” she scratched the back of her head, “buat cara-cara kalo ngadepin penculik atau orang jahat, gitu?” 

Painful memories of the Wijaya matriarch aside, Wulan remembered. Though, she still didn’t understand the lesson’s relevance to their current predicament. “Terus…?”

“Ya,” Nani began, then paused, then fiddled with her fingers. “Kan kita diajarin _ lip-reading.” _

Oh. _ Oh. _

“Lo masih bisa baca mulut orang?” Wulan blurted, amusement taking over her conscience more than anything else. “Gue aja udah lupa—pasti sering lo pake buat ngintipin orang ya, makanya ilmunya tahan banget?”

The tips of Nani’s ears were pink, and she coughed as an answer, which was all Wulan needed for a confirmation. “Co-coba gue ganti CCTV-nya dulu, tapi.” Nani said, inching closer to the screen, pointedly, and rather dramatically, averted Wulan’s gaze. “Yang ini kejauhan, gue gak seberapa kelihatan.” 

Still smirking, Wulan shrugged. “Monggo, silahkan.” She said, mock-saluting Nani as she tinkered with the video player. The angle changed, this one zooming greatly to Dirga’s face, which was recorded as seemingly _ pissed. _“Coba mundurin mulai dari awal Pengkor dateng, deh.”

Nani did, then re-set the playback speed to half of its supposed time. “Okay, I think Dirga is saying Pengkor’s full-name.” She began, as Wulan stared at her expectantly. “Terus dia kayaknya bilang—’_ jadi agar-agar ini’ _—”

Wulan snorted. “Hah? Agar-agar?” 

“_ Ssh, _ ” Nani shushed her, giving her a pout. “Pecah, kan, konsentrasi gue! Ntar, gue _ rewind _ lagi—” She clicked a button, “oke; ‘ _ jadi… jadi acara ini tidak _ — _ ’” _ She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the screen. “ _ ‘Tidak lepas da _ — _ dari jerat malaria bapak _ — _ ’” _

“Jerat _ malaria?” _

“Eh—bentar—” Nani rewound again, “Oh, _ oh! _ Jerat _ mafia _ bapak _ !” _

Wulan’s laughter dimmed. _ Jerat mafia? _

"Bener dia ngomong gitu?" She asked, turning to Nani, who was glaring at the screen, as if willing for the recording to start emitting sounds.

"Ya gue gabisa 100% sure, tapi kayaknya sih gitu." Said Nani, retreating back to her seat. "Napa emang?" 

Wulan turned to Nani like she was a Windows '97 processor. "Coy, dia _ menghina _Pengkor." She said, incredulously. "Lo tau 'kan, rumornya? Kalo Pengkor tuh dapet duit sebanyak itu dari makelarin banyak usaha ilegal, dan duitnya dibuat nyuap anggota Dewan?" 

Nani nodded, slowly. “Apa mereka berantem, makanya Dirga—?” Nani mused, as they watched the scene unfolding. Both women were anticipating something even more vicious, maybe a scathing scene they somehow missed back then when they were actually at the party, but—

But nothing happened.

Ridwan Bahri simply interjected himself before things got ugly, dragging Dirga out of the view, leaving Pengkor and his children on their spot. 

Exchanging wary glances, Nani and Wulan continued to watch, despite the fact that _ nothing _was going according to their predictions. On-screen-Pengkor made that moment to turn to screen, opening his mouth to speak. Wulan immediately scrambled to slow the video down so Nani could predict what he said. 

“Okay,” Nani began, “okay, dia ngomong—’_ uang— _ eh, _ orang seperti itu harus—harus diberi pelajaran.’” _She spelled out the words, which made Wulan’s body ran cold just hearing it. “Terus—”

The recording died, suddenly, surprising both Nani and Wulan. 

“Leh, jancok.” Said Wulan, breathlessly. “Kok—?”

Nani turned to check onto the player, examining it. “Memorinya abis.” Said Nani, and Wulan could detect the frustration in her voice. “Sistemnya kayanya _incidentally_ _switch storage _deh.” 

“Yaudah, storage yang baru mana?” said Wulan, her tone tense. Nani wordlessly carded through the video player, before choosing a new file and pressing play. But it was too late; the switch took at least one minute, and by the time it was completed, Pengkor was already leaving, and the tape only showed Sancaka, standing stoically on the spot they were in. 

They tried to switch to other camera angles, but none were sufficiently close for Nani to be able to read what they were saying. Wulan, inevitably, groaned out of frustration. “Oke, jangan stress dulu,” She could hear Nani say. “We at least now know two things; that Dirga directly insulted Pengkor, and that Pengkor was offended enough to say that Dirga must, and I quote, ‘_ diberi pelajaran.’” _

Slowly, Wulan nodded, tucking her curls behind her ears. She could feel her headache pounding, with her koyo growingly getting less effective by the minute. “Oke.” She affirmed, because Nani was at _ least _ right. This could be a motive, albeit not too solid and kind of a reach, because honestly _ what kind of people would kill someone for simply insulting them? _“Cari rekaman lain, deh.” Said Wulan, finally. “Yang fokusnya ke Dirga, coba.” 

Nani nodded, before jumping between tapes, trying to locate which one had Dirga in it. They finally settled on one tape, where Dirga was seemingly hanging at the side of the stage with his family while the hired performer of the day—Isyana Sarasvati, in all her opera-music glory—sang her songs. Nothing happened for several minutes, and Wulan’s festering doubt about her rather far-reaching theory was starting to eat her up—

But then—then Kamal Atmaja entered the screen, walking with timid steps… towards Dirga. 

Wulan and Nani, exchanging glances, straightened their bodies with buzzing anticipation for the possibility that could unfold before them. Wulan could see Kamal moving his hands, and Dirga tilting his head in skepticism. She held her breath, intently watching the two men who seemed to be involved in an idle conversation, before Dirga slowly lowered Sadhah from his embrace, kissing the top of his head, then his sister’s, then squeezing Bu Cynthia’s arm as he departed, following Kamal.

They approached the elevator casually chatting—Wulan guessed that Dirga didn’t exactly remember Kamal from his previous encounter with Pengkor, based on his relaxed body language. And then, just when the elevator door was starting to open, Wulan saw Kamal’s hand doing something.

A snap. 

And then—then they entered. 

The timestamp showed 21.42 WIB.

According to police reports, Dirga fell on 21.47 WIB. 

“Lift-nya ada CCTV nggak?” Asked Wulan, impatiently. Nani herself didn’t answer, already immersed in scanning the files, trying to find the file they desperately needed.

“What the—Nggak, jir,” Said Nani incredulously, after a while. “Maksudnya—CCTV-nya ada, cuma—kameranya mati. Ga ada filenya.” she showed Wulan a 0-byte-sized file, face tight.

Wulan bit her lower lip, thinking. “Dirga jatuh dari parkiran atas kan?” She said, finally. “Coba liat CCTV yang disana.” 

Nani nodded, tinkering with the record player before pulling the CCTV from the upper parking lot. For a couple of minutes, both women waited, anxiously, for the elevator door to open. 

When it did—nothing could have prepared Wulan and Nani. 

Dirga was in there—tear-streaked and fearful, hands both tied behind his back, running full-speed to—to the safety rails?

His body exited the camera, and then—then the rest was history. 

Wulan gaped, shocked and shaken. She expected a drugging—maybe coercion, a push to the edge. She clearly didn’t expect him to be _ willingly running to his demise. _

Nothing—nothing about this made _ sense. _

“Where—” Nani said, breaking Wulan off her reverie. “Where’s Kamal?”

“Hah?”

Nani tapped the screen with her nail, pointing at the elevator. “Liftnya _ kosong.” _She said, voice still rather shaky. “Nggak ada orang selain Dirga waktu kebuka tadi.” 

Swallowing dryly, Wulan focused on Nani’s finger, and sure enough; the lift _ was _empty. There was no one else besides Dirga. Which meant—

“Balik lagi ke CCTV yang di hall acara, coba.” Wulan prompted, urgently. Nani made the switch, rewound it several minutes before, and sure enough, the elevator door opened, and Kamal walked back out, leaving Dirga behind, before closing again and, undoubtedly, carrying its sole occupant to the place of his ultimate demise. 

Wulan took a shaky breath. _ Ini semua nggak masuk akal. _

“Gue—” Said Nani, confused. “Gue nggak _ ngerti.” _

Tightly pressing her lips, Wulan intently stared at the paused video. “Apa—” She said, softly, mind running thousands of miles per hour. “Apa dia digendam?”

“Kalo digendam nggak bisa ditinggal, ‘Lan. Harus dipenganin terus.” 

“Hipnotis?”

“Sama—_ mind tricks _ kaya gitu harus ditungguin terus orangnya, biar bisa mastiin kalau emang sesuai sama keinginan orang yang _ meddle.” _

“Kok kamu bisa ngerti beginian?” 

“Kidnapping lessons, remember?”

Oh. Right. 

“Lha terus diapain?” Wulan turned, face scrunched in frustrated confusion. “Mosok disantet iki? Dijampi-jampi?” Her _ medhok _accent took over in impulse. 

The suggestion was a wild reach—hell—Wulan didn’t even _ believe _ in magic. Maybe, once upon a time, when her ancestors haven’t been introduced to modern technology and had to disproportionately fight the colonies, magic had graced this land. But not in this time, and certainly not to people like _ that. _

But Nani’s face contorted, as if Wulan’s words awakened something inside her. “Bisa—” She said, slowly, “Bisa jadi?”

Wulan turned at Nani, looking at her as if she’d grown a cat head in-between her shoulder-joints, because surely she was _ insane. _ “Nani, aku _ bercanda.” _She said, incredulously. 

“And you could be _ right.” _Nani insisted, looking at Wulan intently. “All we knew was that this man was the last person that was seen to be with Dirga, and then afterwards Dirga ran to his death.” 

“Iya—_ sendiri, _ Nan.” Wulan insisted. “Dia lari _ sendiri. _Apa yang mau kita bilang ke orang-orang? Kamal bikin dia nangis sampe mati?” She said, voice pitching up in frustration. Her koyo was now barely tingling her skin, and her headache had been continuously pounding, climbing into heights of pain since the past hour. 

God, she needed at least one pill of that caffeinated Panadol. And her back was also starting to kill her. 

“Okay.” Nani said. “Let’s take a deep breath, Wulan. Because this is—_ huge, _ still.” She said, “Inconclusive, and confusing as hell, but still— _ huge.” _

Wulan inhaled, then exhaled, because—okay, she _ hated _ to admit it, but—Nani was _ right. _ They still didn’t know what was going on, but this was a—a _ lead, _nonetheless. 

_ But a lead to what? _

Sighing, Wulan rummaged her hand through her curls. “Oke.” She said, after a while. “Yaudah, coba—sek.” She said, trying to collect her thoughts. “Lo katanya punya dokumen—dokumen yang gue minta kemaren?”

“Yang soal pabrik baja Wijaya itu?” 

Wulan nodded, watching as Nani reached her bag to card through her bag, pulling an average-sized file bundle. “Ini doang sih, yang gue temuin.” Said Nani, dumping it to the crumbs-covered table. “Nggak banyak; cuma daftar transaksi finansial, data pemegang saham, dana transisi pengurus cabang pabrik—” She said, shrugging. “Ada kliping berita soal demo pabrik yang kamu bilang itu—cuma ga ada pemberitaan kalo ada yang meninggal.” 

Wulan pressed her lips, tight, looking at the logs as she scanned through the pages. Nani was right—there was no mention of a murdered factory labor. Her earlier searches after the conversation with Sancaka also yielded no results. 

But his face when he told her about his dad—the raw pain and anger and sadness—

_ Masa Sancaka bohong? _

“Lho, bentar.” Said Wulan, suddenly. “Keluarga Wijaya waktu itu cuma punya saham 38% di pabrik ini?”

Nani nodded, her face turning sour. "Iya. Itu tahun 90-an, kan; waktu itu direkturnya Om Hartoyo."

Wulan blinked, the name sounding familiar. "Adiknya nyokap lo?" She said, finally. "Yang hobinya mabuk itu? Yang sama Mbah Putri dicoret dari KK?" She remembered the chaotic drunktard, the black sheep of Wijaya family that was always given the least promising branch of the economic empire. 

"Yeah—that's the one." Affirmed Nani. "Kalo kata nyokap gue, Om Hartoyo emang banyak jual saham, aset, segala macem, ke pihak ketiga kalo lagi pegang jabatan—kedok buat penggelapan dana." 

Wulan hummed. The aforementioned uncle was indeed a slimy human disaster—it wasn't surprising for him to do so. Her finger traced the paper, trying to infer more from the document. Most of the shareholders were under the name of companies, not individuals, and those under personal names did not list Haedar Subandi in it. 

Her eyes kept going back to one shareholder, though; PT. Gendhis Jaya Abadi, holding 40% of the shares. A sugarcane factory, weirdly enough, one detail that seemed vaguely insignificant, except she seemed to remember—

Wulan gasped, grasping her phone and typed furiously in the Google search bar—and proved her predictions _ right. _

She had researched Pengkor’s background religiously, prior to the interview. She’d overlooked this part of his background, not wanting to dwell too much on the story of how his family lost and then regained back their old plantation, but she could confirm now: PT. Gendhis Jaya Abadi was one of the biggest sugarcane factory in Jombang, East Java—and it was temporarily out of business the same year Pengkor claimed to being torched alive. The company’s CEO wasn’t exactly a familiar name to Wulan’s ear, but its initial owner—

_ Bachtiar Subandi. _

“Ini—” She said, blinking. “Ini Pabriknya _ Pengkor.” _

Nani turned at Wulan, gaping. “Wait, _ really?” _She said, peering over the paper, seeing it for herself as if it could somehow contribute something. “Anjir, gede banget sahamnya!”

“Iya,” Said Wulan, licking her dry lips. “Terus coba lihat tanggalnya; dia beli saham sebanyak itu—2 tahun sebelum demo buruh pabriknya.” She pointed at the date, tapping on the paper incessantly. 

“Maksud lo gimana, terusan?” 

“Ya harusnya dia punya—punya suara kan, di RUPS? Punya kewenangan besar buat ngambil keputusan?”

“Iya, tapi keputusan _ apa _?” 

Wulan opened her mouth, then closed it again, frustrated; because Nani was right—she _ didn’t _ know exactly where she was going. But she had a feeling that she was _ close. _That all it took for her was just another clue. “Lo nggak ada dokumen lain lagi?” She asked back instead, looking at Nani expectantly. 

Running her hand through her hair, Nani sighed. “Ada sih—dokumen notulensi RUPS; dates back _ ages, _ tapi itu di rumah—di kantor pribadi nyokap gue.” She said, frustration coloring her tone. “Butuh banget?”

It didn’t take much for Wulan to infer that Nani _ hated _having to retrieve the documents, and Wulan could come up with at least one reason why. She didn’t want to force, but— “Kita udah deket banget, Nan.” She said, deliberately. “Rasanya kaya—kaya dikit lagi banget; cuma butuh satu petunjuk lagi aja.” 

Nani looked at her for a long time, seemingly internally debating on the matter, before sighing, finally, and nodded. “Yaudah.” She said, finally. “Besok gue ambilin _ file- _ nya; lo ada kosong kan, makan siang? Kita _ examine _pas itu aja.” 

Wulan nodded, sighing in relief. She could do this. She _ would _do this.

“Nanti gue coba korek dari Sancaka juga deh,” Wulan said.

Nani’s face contorted rather unpleasantly. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you that.” She said, after a while. “Lo ngapain, sih, kemarin? Yang ketemuan sama dia di kantor?” She sounded like she was somehow personally offended. 

Wulan sighed. “Gue tuh dapet tugas buat bikin biografi buat Pengkor. Buat Djakarta Times. Wawancara anak-anaknya juga buat kolom filantropi dia.” She said, coming clean. “Sancaka tuh salah satu anaknya.” 

“Oh,” Nani said. “Anaknya ada berapa sih?”

“Banyak,” Wulan said curtly, not wanting to prolong the conversation longer. Just then, the alarm in her phone went off; 10 PM, the clock said. “Gue harus balik sekarang.” Wulan said, quieter this time. 

Nani gave her a small nod, and Wulan offered a wary smile. She was still angry at Nani, but—but the past few hours had tasted like the _ past; _when they were hiding under the covers, playing detective, collaborating together just for the sake of it. 

Wulan had almost forgotten how _ good _ it felt; how _ easy _ it was to just _ be _when she and Nani get along. 

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to remember. 

Shaking her head, Wulan banished the thought from her head as she stood up. There was no time for what-ifs, or personal contemplations. This was work, and—

“Hey.” Nani’s voice pulled her back to reality, and Wulan’s gaze zeroed to her childhood best-friend, her ex-adopted sister, who was fiddling with her fingers nervously. “How about—how about if I drive you home?” 

* * *

Was there a time period between reconciling and being friends again with her runaway adopted sister before she could ask Wulan to hang out casually? 

For the majority of the car ride, Wulan had been quiet, only speaking up to tell Nani the directions. Nani could see that she was deep in thought from the way her forehead creased. She barely looked away from the window, though Nani was sure that she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. What they found on the CCTV was not exactly earth-shattering, since Pengkor was infamous for being a mafia, anyway, but to have tangible evidence that he was involved in something like murder? This was the scoop of the year. Wulan would be a household name once the article came out—and also put a target on her back, which worried Nani greatly. She hoped that if—and only _ if _—it ever came to that, she’d smoothed out the conflict with Dewi Sri so she could keep Wulan safe.

Perhaps it was why Wulan had been muted. Not that she had been animated before, but at least they were talking. Which was an enormous development in their sort-of relationship. Once Nani pulled up to her _ rusun _ , Wulan wasted no time. She slung her bag over her shoulders, already opening the door, walking briskly into her _ rusun _complex without looking back. 

Nani bit her lip and decided that it was worth a shot anyway. She rolled down the window, sticking her head out, and yelled, "I had a really nice time!"

That stopped Wulan in her tracks. She turned around, looking more annoyed than anything else—but what else was new. Nani swallowed and pushed on, "Like—it really was fun. I want to do it again." 

Wulan scrunched up her nose.

"I really miss you!" Nani blurted out. She did not mean to say that, but. 

A window at the second floor suddenly opened. A woman in a flowery daster and a hair mask appeared, holding a frying pan threateningly. "Heh, jangan teriak-teriak! Berisik banget, nggak tau orang mau tidur apa!"

"Sorry!" Nani yelled out, and then, "Eh, maksudnya, maaf, Bu! Saya cuma nganterin temen pulang!"

"Nggak peduli!" the woman shouted back. She waved her frying pan around. "Teriak-teriak lagi, gua sambit, lu!" She closed her window harshly. Nani could see that it rattled the frame. 

"Gusti," Wulan grumbled. Halfheartedly, she walked back towards the car. 

Nani sheepishly retreated back inside. "Maaf, Lan," she mumbled, "Pengen ngasih tau itu aja."

"Ya kan nggak usah teriak-teriak, bego," Wulan snapped. "Bisa lewat SMS juga."

Nani bristled at the curse word, but she supposed she deserved it. "Felt impersonal," Nani said.

Wulan stared at her, clearly exasperated, and Nani could see a thousand words brewing on the tip of her tongue, wanting to burst out. But Wulan only sighed. "Nan, gue bilang gini bukan karena apa-apa, tapi gue nggak mau lo mikir yang tadi itu artinya gue mempersilakan lo masuk ke hidup gue lagi." She paused, letting the words, painful as they were, sink in. "Karena kita bukan temen."

Nani blinked. "Oh."

"Terima kasih atas bantuan lo, tapi itu gak lantas bikin gue lupa semua yang lo lakuin ke gue. Semua yang nyokap lo lakuin ke gue," Wulan added, wrapping her arms around herself. Couldn't be because Jakarta is cold. 

"Apa... nggak ada yang bisa gue lakuin?" Nani asked. "Apa pun, Lan. Gue pengen kita kayak dulu lagi."

"Nggak bisa," Wulan shook her head. Something in Nani's expression must've softened Wulan, because her next words were gentler, "Butuh waktu, oke?"

Nani's chest deflated. But what did she expect? She did stand by as the abuse happened. She might not have been the hand that slapped Wulan, but she let it happen, and it was almost as bad. One or two nights of hanging out couldn't undo the damages. She gripped the steering wheel and tried her best at a smile. "Oke," Nani agreed. "Kalo kamu udah siap—"

"Gue punya nomor lu," Wulan interjected quickly, like she couldn't wait to get this conversation over with. 

Nani felt like she couldn't say goodbye, somehow, so she simply nodded politely at Wulan as she rolled the window up. She restarted the car and pulled away from the rusun's driveway. Took a peek at the rearview mirror, hoping to catch Wulan still standing, waving at her, but there was no one where Wulan stood. 

Yeah, what else was she expecting?

She turned on the radio, just to squash the disappointment that sat heavy on her chest. Soft guitar plucks filtered through the air, but at the first verse—_ baby take my hand _—she knew she already hated it, almost punching the next button so she wouldn't have to hear the singer asking a hypothetical man to be her husband and Iron Man. 

"Elshinta News and Talk," the radio host announced, and Nani leaned back. This ought to be a good distraction; the news these days always depressed her. Better to be depressed at the state of the world than Wulan’s cold rejection. "Breaking news. Musisi Adi Sulaeman ditemukan tewas di Teater Jakarta, malam ini, pukul 20.00 WIB. Mayatnya ditemukan oleh seorang..."

Damn. Not _ that _depressing.

"Oh, no," Nani mumbled. "Oh, that's terrible."

Adi was a brilliant musician. She'd gone to his concerts, once or twice, passed by him at galas and functions, but never really said hi. She didn’t know if she should feel like she should’ve.

"...polisi mengatakan bahwa investigasi masih berlanjut. Adi Sulaeman adalah anak angkat dari Haedar Subandi..."

Wait, he _ was _?

Nani turned up the volume. Jesus, how many children were adopted by Pengkor? Could Adi be one of the children that Wulan got to interview? How would Wulan feel right now, to know that as their investigation ran deeper, a man associated with their culprit had died?

"...dalam hidupnya, Adi telah menoreh berbagai prestasi, seperti nominasi Grammy dan bekerja sama dengan komposer terkenal seperti Hans Zimmermann..."

Suddenly, the announcer's voice cut off, replaced by the ringing sound of her iPhone. Right, she had her phone connected to the car in case of emergency. She glanced at the caller ID flashed on the dashboard screen, thinking it was Wulan, perhaps calling to discuss the recent developments, but was surprised to find that it was Cantika.

"Siri, answer the call," Nani giddily instructed. The ringing stopped, and Cantika's beautiful voice greeted her.

"Nan?" There was a nervous edge to her voice that had Nani frowning.

Red light flashed, and Nani's car came to slow crawl, then stopped. She glanced up at the timer—120 seconds. "Hey," she replied cautiously, "Didn't expect you to call me so soon. Thought you'd be sick of me by now."

Cantika laughed, but something sounded off. Nani tapped her sumping, hoping it could pick up something, but it seemed like Cantika wasn't in immediate danger. Her hands on the steering wheel didn't relax, though. 

"Sibuk nggak?"

"Nggak, ini baru kelar kantor," Nani said, which was technically true.

"Malem banget."

"Kerjaan, Cantik," Nani said in lieu of explaining, only realizing she'd called Cantika with that sickeningly corny nickname after it was out of her mouth. She hoped Cantika didn't mind sickeningly corny. "Kenapa?"

Cantika's next words seemed like it took a lot just to get out. "Can you... can you come over?" In a smaller voice, "I just... I really need someone."

Nani's heart nearly broke at how upset Cantika sounded. "Yeah, of course," she said, already putting in Cantika's address into the car's GPS. "Give me forty, okay? I'll see you soon."

Cantika's only answer was a sincere, "thank you" before the call abruptly ended. Worry seeped into Nani’s bones. For the last two days, they’d spent the night together, just talking about nothing and everything while they ignored Netflix playing in the background. That was the reason for this unprecedented delay in her meeting with Wulan, which she’d never admit to Wulan because she’d probably never wanted to talk to Nani again after Nani ditched her, but also—she didn’t feel half as bad as she should.

Because—

Well. She _ liked _Cantika.

After her disastrous early twenties went public, she swore off dating. Her therapist hadn’t suggested celibacy, but Nani knew that she wasn’t _ herself _enough to stave off impulses, and she promised herself that she’d never get close to anything remotely romantic until she learned to have a healthy point of view about the things that used to be vices for her—sex and alcohol. 

There was that, and the homophobia also didn’t help. She really wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable ‘where did I do wrong?’ speech her mother was going to unleash on her when she came out. Which could be never, because that meant she’d had to step down from her position.

Cantika had been a shock to her system. Nani hadn’t planned on it being romantic, no—there was a part of her that was afraid that she was reading into it too much, that the bisexual pride flag she saw was just a sign of her allyship, that the way her voice dropped as their faces drew close to each other was just from the drowsiness of sleep, so naturally, it progressed there. Neither had addressed it explicitly, but really, Nani was content with the pace they’d set. Most of her past relationships, closeted as they were, had proceeded so quickly that Nani only realized far too late that she’d been caught in a whirlwind. 

Tonight, though, felt like something momentous was going to happen. Something definitive.

At every turn, every red light, Nani drove almost without thinking. Her mind was stuck on Cantika, worried that something terrible had happened to her. Paranoia made her think of the worst things, and she had to physically shake her head just so she’d stop freaking herself out. Cantika was evidently not okay, but whatever it was, Nani hoped it was nowhere as bad as the scenarios she’d made up in her head. 

Finally, Cantika’s building came into view. She parked in her designated spot—every tenant at Cantika’s building was assigned a parking spot, and since Cantika’s room was a double lot converted into one, she had one that she wasn’t using. She’d reserved it for Nani and that, despite everything, never failed to make Nani’s heart flutter in her chest. The gesture felt oddly domestic; not that Nani was complaining.

Nani exited her car, unlocking the door as she buzzed herself in. Climbing up the stairs to Cantika’s room two at a time, she rapped on the door, softly calling out, “Cantika?’

The door opened, and there was Cantika, standing in front of her with wide eyes. The sleeves of her cardigan was pulled to cover her palms, and from the frayed edges, it was clear that she had been actively destroying it. 

“Hey,” Nani said, felt unnervingly like approaching a scared cat, “I came as fast as I could. You okay?”

Cantika made an aborted gesture, like she wanted to reach out and wrap her arms around Nani, but something was holding her back. It made Nani hesitate to touch her. 

“Nggak usah cerita, nggak apa-apa,” Nani said slowly. One time, she had been so upset that talking about it felt like the hardest thing to do. She had a feeling that Cantika was feeling the same way. “Kalo kamu cuma mau ditemenin, that’s okay, I’m here.”

It actually made Cantika tear up, which—Nani couldn’t be sure if it was a good or a bad thing. Possibly both. Hesitantly, she took a step forward. “May I hug you?”

There was a moment where Cantika looked unsure, but she nodded, slow, and Nani pulled her gently into her arms. She felt Cantika bury her nose in her shoulder, her hands slowly coming up to return her embrace, and for a long moment they stood there, almost swaying, until Cantika started to sob. 

“Oh, no,” Nani murmured. She pulled away, just a little, so she could caress one of Cantika’s cheeks, wiping down the tears that kept running down her face. “Hey, it’s okay, cry it out, baby, I’m here.”

Cantika slid down the door, legs giving out, and Nani went with her, kneeling in front of her, holding her hand. It broke Nani to see her like this. If she ever found the person who hurt Cantika like this, that would be the end of them. Noble mission or no, in the span of weeks, Cantika had become increasingly important for her. 

This would be the last time she’d ever let Cantika be hurt like this. 

After a while, Cantika’s sobs began to subside. Nani breathed with her, the calming technique she’d learned at the age of fifteen when she started having panic attacks—three seconds in, three seconds hold, three seconds out. The tension around Cantika’s shoulders loosened. Exhausted, she let her head fall against the door, eyes closed. 

Nani kept rubbing circles on her palm. 

“God, I’m sorry,” Cantika choked out. “Aku nggak maksud ganggu—”

“Kamu nggak akan pernah ganggu.” Nani wasn’t even going to let Cantika finish her sentence. 

A faint smile appeared on Cantika’s face, though it quickly disappeared as she furiously scrubbed the tears away from her face. She held onto Nani’s hands, and if Nani had been someone ordinary not a vessel of godlike powers, the strength would’ve probably bruised her fingers. As it happened, Nani simply let Cantika hold her—it felt like she was afraid Nani would disappear if she loosened her grip by even a fifth of an inch. 

“Pindah ke sofa, yuk, Can?” Nani urged softly. “Nanti masuk angin, kalo semaleman di lantai gini. Dingin.”

Cantika chuckled hoarsely. “Kamu lupa aku pernah jalan-jalan di Paris waktu musim dingin pake kaos doang?”

“Beda. Di luar negri mah nggak ada masuk angin,” Nani grinned. “Yuk, pegel juga kaki kamu pasti.”

Cantika still looked like she’d much rather spend the night on the floor, but she went when Nani gently pulled her up. The sofa in question was really more of a pull-out bed than anything else, and they collapsed into it comfortably. Almost automatically, Cantika settled against her outreached arm, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. 

Nani didn’t even have time to worry about Cantika listening to her speeding heart. Cantika’s sadness made her feel helpless. 

“Kamu pernah ngerasain—”

Nani held her breath. “Ya?”

“Like—” Cantika blew out a breath. It landed hot on Nani’s exposed skin. “Failure is an inevitability?”

Nani nodded slowly. “Kamu tahu umur 20-ku gimana,” she said quietly, “I know failure very well.”

“I feel like it’s a house of cards,” Cantika mumbled. “You try everything in your might to make sure it stays together, but you never account for the wind. You turn your back to enjoy the breeze, and when you come back, it’s already ruined.”

“You can always pick up the pieces,” Nani said. 

“It won’t be the same,” Cantika shook her head. Her hair tickled Nani’s ears. 

“No, it won’t,” Nani agreed, pulling Cantika closer to her. She hoped Cantika didn’t mind. “Tapi kalo dibiarin tetap ancur… I think it will be worse.”

Could it be professional failure? Failed a promotion test? Nani understood failure deeply, but she feared saying the wrong things and making it all about her if she were to relate it to her own experience. Cantika sniffled, “Ugh. Maaf baju kamu jadi kotor.” She patted her shoulder pads, her best approximation of cleaning it. “Putih lagi.”

“Biarin,” Nani pulled Cantika into her again. “Bisa di-dry clean. Mau kamu nangis ke jaket LV-ku juga bodo amat.” Cantika laughed, incredulous. 

“Yang penting kamu feel better,” Nani said softly. 

Cantika stared at her.

“Kenapa?” Nani whispered.

“Cuma mikirin untung aku ketemu kamu,” Cantika said.

“Kayaknya yang beruntung aku deh,” Nani said. “After all, _ you _saved my life.”

Cantika ducked her head. “For the record,” she said, flicking a finger on Nani’s nose, “I’m really glad I did.”

Nani may have not done enough good deeds in Dewi Sri’s eyes, but a benevolent god out there must’ve thought her a saint. There was no way this moment wasn’t a blessing from god alone—from the way Cantika melted into her embrace, to the nervous flick of her eyes, stealing glances at Nani, to—

To this. 

It took Nani a while to register that she was being kissed. Even longer to kiss back, to let her mouth open under Cantika’s tongue, letting her change their position so Cantika was on top of her, hands on her jaw. 

_ Thud, thud, thud. _Rapid beats echoed in her ears, and it took them separating for Nani to realize that it was her own heart. 

Cantika’s eyes were wide, her lips obscenely shiny in a way that made heat pool in the base of Nani’s stomach. “I—” Cantika shook her head, helpless, “I’m sorry—”

Nani shushed her. “Cantik,” she said, reaching up so she could brush away the flyaway hairs from her forehead, “Nggak usah minta maaf. Harusnya aku yang minta maaf.”

Cantika pulled back. Instead of hovering over Nani, she settled on her ass, sitting effectively on Nani’s lap. Nani sat upright so they could be face-to-face. “I’m the one who kissed you,” Cantika said, sounding regretful, and that—that shouldn’t be what she was feeling, not about kissing her. 

“Tapi kamu lagi sedih,” Nani said. “Vulnerable. Aku nggak mau manfaatin itu.”

Cantika looked away, arms crossed over her chest. “Sedih bukan berarti nggak bisa nyium kamu.”

Despite herself, Nani laughed. God, years of yearning for a touch like this, for a _ feeling _ like this—and embarrassing amount of _ Saving Face _, the only piece of lesbian media that mattered—and when it finally happened, she did all she could do delay it. She still stood by what she said, anyway. Of all people, she knew what sadness could drive people to.

(_ Endless bodies in the bar’s bathrooms, nameless mouths traveling down her chest, her legs _—)

“Tapi bukan berarti kamu juga lagi… in your right mind,” Nani said, and immediately wished she could’ve chosen a better phrase when she saw Cantik bristling. In a flash, Cantika had gotten off her lap, striding across the room like she couldn’t get away fast enough from her. _ Shit _.

Nani jumped off the sofa, following her with panic rising in her chest. “Can, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t try to tell me how I should feel,” Cantika hissed. 

“I know,” Nani said. “I just don’t want you to do something that you’d regret.” She paused, keeping their distance a full arm’s length away, not wanting to crowd her space. “I don’t want you to regret _ me _.”

Cantika said nothing.

Nani drew in a sharp breath. “Because I really, _ really _ like you. A lot. Aku sampe ninggalin kerjaan karena aku nggak mau nggak bareng kamu.” _ And she would apologize to Wulan, profusely, when their relationship stood more on a stable ground. _“Setelah entah berapa lama aku nutup diri, kamu satu-satunya yang bikin aku berani nyoba lagi. Berani mulai lagi. Can, I—”

_ Don’t say I love you, stupid. _

“—I want to be girlfriend and girlfriend with you.”

_ Good fucking save, Wijaya. Are you fucking twelve and watching the Thelma and Louise for the first time? _

Cantika only looked away. Cold crept up Nani’s veins—god, had she been reading this all wrong? What if all she felt from Cantika was just sexual attraction, and her yearning-addled brain manipulated her to believe that it was more than that? 

She wasn’t ready for another heartbreak. Not in the middle of all this mess—

“I am sad,” Cantika finally said. “And vulnerable.” 

“Yes, that’s why—”

“_ Let me finish, goddammit, _ ” Cantika growled. Nani immediately shut up—dear god, this was the wrong moment to have an awakening about how Cantika’s low, authoritative voice made her feel. Not at all. “I am sad and vulnerable, and I called _ you _. I’ve had my fair share of exploitative assholes, okay? And I called you because I know you wouldn’t.”

Cantika said, “I kissed you because I wanted to. I _ can _want to kiss you and feel sad at the same time.”

Cantika said, “And I also want to be girlfriend and girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Nani felt her cheeks warm. “Baguslah.”

“Baguslah?” Cantika’s eyebrows raised. “Kita baru aja bare our souls to each other and you said _ ‘baguslah’? _”

“Ya gimana!” Nani said indignantly. “Aku nggak pernah pacaran sama cewek! Harusnya ngapain emangnya?”

“Ya nggak tahu! Cium aku, kek, apa kek—”

“Masa langsung nyrosok? Aku belom dapet consent!”

“I kissed you!” Cantika clasped her hands in front of her together. “This is me, giving my full, enthusiastic consent—” she cut herself off, like she’d realized this argument was completely batshit and they should’ve been making out five minutes ago, and barrelled into Nani. 

The kiss this time was rougher, but no less sweet. They crashed into each other, the momentum knocking the breath out of Nani’s chest, and she held onto Cantika’s arms, let Cantika grip the side of her head, and kiss the hell out of her. 

When they pulled away, Nani was gasping. 

“Holy shit,” Nani said.

“Yeah,” Cantika agreed, laughing. “Holy shit.”

Nani joined in her laughter. She moved her hands to bracket Cantika’s face, pressed their foreheads together while she just _ breathed _, trying to remember how it felt like to not have her heart beating like a war drum. 

They did not much else that night. After the second kiss, Nani suggested that they go to sleep—the implication turning Nani a deep shade of red, which made Cantika laugh and kiss the tip of her nose with the promise of _ later _—and while they lay, Nani let Cantika snuggle into her side and whispered comforting words into her ears as she drifted off to sleep. 

Nani didn’t remember falling asleep. She only remembered that she had been staring at the slope of Cantika’s small nose, and the next thing she knew she opened her eyes to the morning light filtering in through the window, and Cantika was nowhere to be found.

She was soon comforted, however, by the smell of onions wafting from the kitchen. Right—Cantika, morning person. She smiled to herself, immersed in a domestic bliss that she never thought she'd ever have, as a closeted lesbian woman in a violently homophobic country. She never cared for those TV shows that depicted housewives being busy in the kitchen while their husbands slept in, but perhaps she just disliked it because they weren't both women.

The tranquility of the morning broke quickly. A shrill ringtone coming from her left cut through the peaceful silence, and Nani groaned as she was pulled back into reality. Blindly, she groped for her phone on the nightstand, and in an instant, she was wide awake. 

"Shit," she muttered. She hadn’t even gone to her mom’s house to retrieve the necessary documents. Wulan would be _ pissed _. 

She had sent her _ twenty two messages _ in total. 

Wulan✨✨  
  
**Yesterday** 11:24 PM  
Nan lo denger gak? Adi meninggal  
  
tirto.id/Musisi_Adi_Sulaeman_Tewas.php  
  
Timing-nya kenapa gini sih anjir  
  
Nan?? Udah tidur lo??  
  
**Yesterday** 11:31 PM  
Nan??  
  
asu aku ditinggal turu  
  
katanya gakmau ghosting lagi anjir  
  
_message unsent._   
  
**Today** 00:12 AM  
Nan. Kata lo Sancaka benci sama lo kenapa?  
  
Lo ngapain dia emangnya? Ngambil apa yang seharusnya bukan punya lo?? Apa gimana??  
  
Gue baru baca-baca lagi nih. Tahun 1970-an, keluarga lu ngebeli kebun tebu punya keluarga Pengkor. Tapi murah banget harganya. Gatau kenapa???  
  
ini yang ngejual namanya Rusman Subandi  
  
oalah pakdhe-ne Pengkor kayaknya  
  
**Today** 00:27 AM  
Nan  
  
Jancok kita kudu ketemu  
  
Nannnnnnnnnnnnnn  
  
**Today** 00:53 AM  
kayaknya gue ngerti  
  
nan gue kirim lo sesuatu cek ya  
  
**Today** 02:50 AM  
besok pagi gue ke kantor lu, notulensi RUPS-nya bawain jangan lupa  
  
**Today** 06:08 AM  
Nan?????  
  
Ya Gusti Pangeran mosok durung tangi......  
  
**Today** 07:13 AM  
bodo amat gue berangkat sekarang. sampe ketemu di kantor.  
  


__

the last chat bubble had a period at the end. Which was troubling.

The radio announcement of Adi's death echoed in her head. Wulan couldn't be in danger, could she?

She put on her clothes in record time and dashed to the kitchen, regretting that she couldn't drink in this scenery religiously like she wanted: Cantika in booty shorts and an oversized t-shirt, scrambling eggs.

She stole a kiss on her way out, and Cantika made a surprised noise.

"Udah mau pergi?" she sounded disappointed, which prompted to break Nani's heart just a little.

"Maaf banget ya, Cantik," Nani said, slipping on her Louboutins. "Rapat pagi ini di Kuningan. Jauh."

"Nggak makan?" Cantika gestured at the eggs. "Udah aku siapin..."

Nani hesitated, then, stepped into the kitchen to shove a spoonful of eggs into her mouth. Added an exaggerated moan for effect, which made Cantika roll her eyes in fondness. She kissed Cantika's cheeks again, just because.

"Pergi dulu, Can!" 

And then she was out of the door, hurrying into whatever whirlwind awaited her at the office.

* * *

The happiness in her heart felt hollow.

She had turned her phone off the second Nani agreed to come over last night. Bapak would chew her out, she knew. It was an act of self-preservation, in her defense; she knew Sancaka would be texting her in a frenzy, wondering why, asking her why Adi had to be killed. That was the only answer for why Adi's death was so abrupt. And from the way he'd been found, she knew that it had to be Ghani—no one liked making statements the way that he did. If it had been anyone else, it would've been quick, efficient—respectful.

All in the name of the cause.

With a heavy heart, Cantika left the eggs on the counter. She wasn't hungry to begin with, anyway.

Picking up her phone from the coffee table, she plugged it to the charger port, dreading the onslaught of messages and missed calls.

She'd promised no one was going to fail after Kanigara. And yet—

Her phone vibrated non-stop, notifications pouring in endlessly. Cantika only stared. She couldn't even wish that Nani was here; Nani didn't know who she was, what she did. Not even sure if Nani would ever know. _ Should _ever. Being with Nani was so easy, it made Cantika forget she had responsibilities. Tasks needed to be done.

In the midst of her rumination, her screen lit up with a call from Bapak. Gulping, she brought her phone close to her face. There was no evading Bapak. 

With her heart in her stomach, she accepted the call.

"Bapak?" 

Came Bapak's hoarse voice, "Cantika," a hint of disappointment that had her heart beating in fear, "Kamu ke mana saja, Nak?"

Cantika bit her lip. "Maafkan saya, Pak. Saya... berduka."

"Harusnya kan bisa sama Bapak, di rumah. Adik-adikmu kemarin di sini semua, kita adakan upacara untuk Adi," Bapak said. "Mereka nanyain kamu terus."

Flashes of last night burned in her mind. She was kissing Nani while her siblings mourned. _ God. _

"Maafin saya, Pak," Cantika whispered. "Saya menyesal tidak datang. Tapi waktu tahu Adi telah gugur, saya..." 

"Merasa gagal?" Bapak supplied for her.

Cantika nodded, before she realized Bapak wouldn't be able to see it. "Iya, Pak," Cantika said, her voice shaky.

"Anak perempuan pertama," Bapak said, softness in his voice, "Memang bebannya paling banyak, di keluarga. Kamu merasakan kegagalan dan keguguran adik-adikmu seolah itu kamu sendiri."

Cantika closed her eyes. "Bagaimana... bagaimana saya bisa menebus Adi, Pak?"

"Kamu harus tahu bahwa ini bukan salah kamu, Cantik." _ God, Bapak was so kind. She didn't deserve this. _ "Ada seseorang yang sedang mencoba mengulik keluarga kita. Dia yang menyebabkan Adi harus digugurkan." Bapak paused, let the words sink in. "Cantika, orang ini lah yang paling berbahaya."

Cantika sat up straight. A mission. Her head cleared suddenly, all thoughts of Adi or any wispy daydreams about Nani vanished, replaced by lazer-sharp objective. This was a chance, she realized. Bapak was giving her another chance to protect her siblings, make sure no one ever had to be disappeared.

"Berikan namanya ke saya, Pak," Cantika said. "Saya akan selesaikan misi ini dengan baik."

"Kamu masih ingat aturannya, Cantika?"

Cantika swallowed. "Satu peluru, karena anak Bapak tidak boleh gagal," she whispered. "Jika gagal, kejar hingga dapat dengan tangan sendiri."

Bapak hummed, satisfied. "Kamu sudah siap?"

"Selalu, Pak."

Her phone gave a soft ping, and she looked down at it—a file had been intercepted. She clicked on it—a 2 megabyte picture of a beautiful, tanned-skin woman with curly hair, walking out of Adi’s studio.

Cantika committed to having her dead by noon.

"Nama targetmu," Bapak said, "_ Sedhah Esti Wulan _."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for Safira (@sangpenjihir on Twitter) for inspiring us and leading the anak bapak AU.... Saatnya anak yatim bangkit !!!
> 
> follow us on twitter!  
ana: @surabayuh  
nad: @tinysanciki


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